


Killer Smile

by Black_Calliope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Bloodplay, FBI!AU, M/M, Sexual Content, Werewolves are still a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One. Two. Seven. How many times should a killer strike before getting called 'serial'? </p><p>Or the one where Stiles works as a member of a Behavioral Analysis Unit, gets insulted quite a lot, learns that love doesn't always take the shortest path and cultivates an illicit relationship with a coffee mug. Not necessarily in that order. Also, Boyd has a thing for explosives and Lydia is the most BAMF coroner ever. Derek doesn't get his spring rolls because he doesn't deserve them. Neither does Stiles, but that's another whole story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killer Smile

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Killer Smile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006091) by [24redhoodie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/24redhoodie/pseuds/24redhoodie), [HSTWOg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSTWOg/pseuds/HSTWOg), [Naty_White](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naty_White/pseuds/Naty_White)



> This work wouldn't even exist if it hadn't been for my friend [Joji387](http://joji387.tumblr.com/), so this story is dedicated to her and to all the people who have pushed me into writing during these past months, my precious beta, [Valress](http://valress.livejournal.com/), in particular (check out her [amazing Fanmix](http://valress.livejournal.com/82019.html) for the story!).
> 
> Also, a huge thank you goes to my artist, [Maichan](http://maichan.livejournal.com/), because she created the [most perfect website ever](http://maichan.livejournal.com/94131.html) to go along with my story. I strongly suggest you check it out because, really, it's simply _amazing_.

_Why would anyone want to stuff a red pepper into an olive?_

It’s a perfectly legitimate question, one that Stiles has been rolling around in his mind for the last ten minutes and still hasn’t found a decent answer to. Mostly because he has no fucking clue why someone in his right mind would do something like stuff an olive full of a red vegetable just to make it look, what, more colorful? Extremely palatable? Sexier?

It’s like, by stuffing them, the food industry is making a precise statement, insinuating that plain green olives aren’t tasty enough to reach the top by themselves, that they are too uninteresting to get their own personal spotlight and therefore need some red to tart it up a bit. Which, hey, rude. Olives need no red pepper to help them shine like a fucking supernova in the vast and timeless food sky, thank you very much.

“You must feels so victimized,” Stiles mutters to the olive blinking at him from under a glassful of dry Martini. The olive stares right back, unimpressed by Stiles’ chivalrous indignation. He sighs, twisting the glass in his hand, and watches the bright, crystal clear liquid inside it slosh for a second before taking a sip.

The drink tastes strong and slightly comforting against Stiles’ tongue and he swallows quickly, adjusting himself on top of the barstool and wriggling his ass inside his insanely tight jeans. He can almost hear his balls crying in despair as they swear to be good for the rest of their hairy life if only Stiles would be so magnanimous and _let them breathe_. Which is, duh, another fucking good reason to hate the fact that he has to be here.

It’s quite a calm Friday night at the club, and yet the dance floor is still full of people, the strobe lights making them look like butterflies dancing between fireworks, tall, sweat-slick bodies moving to the rhythm of music. Stiles leans back, placing his elbows against the edge of the bar, his white shirt stretching around his torso and outlining every single curve, from the flat expanse of his stomach to the barely visible peak of his nipples. He licks his lips and waits.

It isn’t much later when a man dressed in a light grey suit slides onto the barstool beside him with a motion too fluid and deliberate to go unnoticed. “You know what,” he says in a steady, baritone voice that matches perfectly with the steel-blue of his eyes, “I don’t think it’s gonna rain anytime soon in here, but-” he winks playfully at Stiles’ direction, and then proceeds to produce a bright yellow cocktail umbrella out of nowhere, offering it to Stiles.

Now, the situation is so cliché that it almost makes Stiles want to hide his face in his hands and just laugh in the man’s face. Too bad that, all considered, he’s here to do his job, which means that making fun of stupid men and their even stupider pick-up lines is a big no-no. At least for now. No one says that the fun can’t be postponed, right?

So Stiles smiles the best of his shy smiles, blinking a couple times in an innocent fashion just for good measure. “Shouldn’t that be a flower?” he says in his best naïve voice, picking the small umbrella from the man’s hand and casually brushing it with his fingers while doing so.

The man grins, showing a long line of perfectly white teeth. “With such a pretty face, I thought you knew,” his eyebrows arch in what is clearly supposed to be a fake surprised expression. Stiles’ inner voice snorts and he represses the urge to facepalm in favor of a pleased smile. “Nonconformist is the new black.”

 _Seriously._ “Nonconformist.” Stiles tastes the word on his tongue, gives it time to sink before shooting the man a mischievous look. “Is that the word you’d choose to describe yourself?” he asks, leaning slightly forward.

It’s only a matter of body signals, nothing more. Someone pushes your comfort zone’s boundaries and all you have to do is push back, mirror their gestures, let them think that what they see it’s real, that your fingers brushing against their skin are really sending sparks of heat straight to their groin, and that your tongue is sliding out of your mouth and licking your lips because you want to taste them, lick the sweat away from their bodies and let them press you against any available surface, open and pliant and so sweet it’s intoxicating-

“Sure,” the man grins cockily, crossing his legs and leaning right into Stiles’ personal space. And with that Stiles knows that he’s got him. “Why not.”

Ten, maybe twelve minutes, that’s how much it takes before the stranger- Graham, as he himself tells Stiles, a not-so-young-anymore book editor with a passionate love for sporty cars and Italian wine and who does he want to kid, hm? Stiles has seen The Holyday too, and he surely isn’t planning to end his night with jizz smeared all over his hair à la Cameron Diaz. Or was that another movie? Fuck, Stiles has drunk not even nearly enough Martinis to deal with this kind of shit.

Anyway, the focus point of the situation is that, at a certain point, the guy places a hand straight over Stiles’ thigh, exigent fingertips pressing into muscle and showing that he really, really wouldn’t mind to get Stiles’ inviting cover wide open and have a very close, very thorough look at what’s inside.

A playful, harmless look is everything Stiles offers in return. He doesn’t scoot away, doesn’t even acknowledge the palm resting on his upper thigh, just acts like the slut that he, in fact, is and spreads his legs a bit more, licking his lips and waiting for Graham’s next move.

Suddenly, something inside the other man’s eyes becomes _sharper_. “Why don’t we go talk somewhere quieter?” he offers easily, leaving the implications behind his proposal to swim into the air like tiny, charcoal-black mermaids. Damn clever creatures those, too bad for the fact that they are kind of, like, _lethal killing machine_ level of dangerous or Stiles would already have sought asylum between their kind by now, werewolves and their _crazy-banshee-on-her-period-_ like shenanigans be damned.

Graham (or maybe Kenneth, Bjorn, _Daffodil_. Ah! Stiles has a long list of names that would match this man’s ridiculous face), has at least the decency to look very pleased by Stiles’ lack of reaction, interpreting it as tacit consent and therefore tightening his grip over Stiles’ leg, turning it from casual to possessive. “I just happen to know a very nice, very quiet place,” he continues in a honey-sweet tone.

To Stiles’ ears it doesn’t make much difference from hearing a pyromaniac say that – oh, how fortuitous! – he just happens to have a spare lighter in his pocket. He briefly wonders if there is the almost inconsistent, yet heavy weight of a gold ring in the man’s pockets, because he looks just like the viscid kind of man who would leave his own wife alone at night, waiting home with a couple of adorable kids as he, Graham, the big nonconformist liar, goes looking for young, available boys to fuck in isolated alleys.

Not that what this man does outside of this club should concern Stiles, of course. Worrying about clients’ lives isn’t part of his job, after all.

Shrugging away every other thought, Stiles licks his lips and lets his eyes go dark with a lust that doesn’t belong to him. “Sure,” he says, eyes dropping to Graham’s crotch, there where the cloth of his pants is now stretching around his growing erection, and lingering just long enough to be read as a teasing gesture.

What happens next is standard procedure for _casual lay picked up in a club_ situations, with Graham paying for their drinks – hey, Stiles still is, under certain points of view, a respectable slut, thank you very much – and then literally dragging Stiles out of the club at warp speed.

Hell, Stiles barely manages to wink to Nick, the bartender, and see him waving back, totally amused, before he’s being pushed towards the back exit, Graham’s body a solid presence behind him as they walk away from the loud, thumping music.

To be honest, Stiles is a bit annoyed at the lack of originality. Everyone keeps always choosing the back exit and, really, if at first he’d found it amusing, now he only wishes that the guys picking him up would possess a bit more fantasy and, say, ask to fuck him in a car. Now, that would be a nice change in Stiles’ boring routine, provide him that pinch of old good action that he so dearly misses.

Obviously, like all the other ones, Graham seems to be too eager to get into Stiles’ pants  to keep his hands to himself at least during the short minute it takes them to get out of the club. He walks closely behind Stiles, fingers clutching his hips and keeping his pressed against his chest as they walk down a dimly-lit corridor. Puffs of hot, alcohol stenched breath shatter against Stiles’ cheek, making him seriously sick with disgust for the first time since the start of the night.

When they slip out of the club, the humid, cold air brushes against Stiles’ face like velvety ice, making him shiver. He doesn’t turn when he hears the click of the door falling shut behind him, the sound of the step that Graham takes towards him echoing in the empty alley like pebbles falling into an aluminum funnel, dry and loud and _rushed_.

“Come here, boy,” Stiles hears him say. And, when Graham’s hand clutches the back of his neck, hot and sweaty and fucking disgusting, Stiles reacts by pure instinct.

If there is something that Allison will never stop repeating during their Jiu Jitsu lessons that is that Stiles needs to lower his barycentre, make sure that his feet are securely planted onto the ground during both attack and defense, if he doesn’t want to end up falling over his ass  like a baby deer trying to learn how to walk. And that’s exactly what Stiles does, turning and gripping the man’s hand in one smooth motion, pulling and then pushing with all his body weight, making sure that the combination between Graham’s surprise and Stiles’ sudden move will send him stumbling back against the red brick wall.

“What the fuck!” Graham screams when Stiles pushes him face first onto the cold, solid surface of the wall and then- “You must be fucking kidding me!” when the sharp click of handcuffs closing around his wrists fills the air around them, resonating like a derisory laugh.

Stiles doesn’t even bother being cautious. On the contrary, he pushes his right palm between the man’s shoulder blades, literally plastering him against the dirty wall. “You’re under arrest, _boy_ ,” he hisses inside the man’s ear. “You better behave.”

***

“The cat is in the bag. I repeat: the cat is in the bag.”

From inside the in-ear microphone that Danny had entrusted to Stiles only a few hours before, Jackson’s voice resonates loud and clear. “Quit acting like fucking 007 and get your ass back here, Stilinski, so I can finally get some sleep.”

“Fucking princess,” Boyd says from inside the auricular.

Stiles can’t grasp Jackson’s grunted reply, probably because the complete fucker has silenced the microphone with his hand. “Totally the wettest blanket ever,” he still chuckles in reply, though. Can’t miss an occasion to make fun of Jackson, not even during a late night case.

“I’ll wet myself with your blood if you don’t get back here now,” Jackson shoots back, but there is no trace of malice in his tone, more like a resigned amusement.

Stiles shoots a pitiful look to old, good Graham – whose real name is actually Babcock Winters, as Stiles has learned from his ID while trying not to choke from laughing because, well, _Babcock_ –, who is now leaning against the wall  with his hands handcuffed behind his back and the air of someone who still isn’t quite sure he isn’t about to get murdered. Which, come on, does Stiles look like someone who would lure a man into a dark alley and then tie him before stabbing him to death? Not that he’s never done it but, yeah, it kind of counted as self-defense. Or pack-defense. Doesn’t make much difference, really.

He sighs and then tells Graham (Stiles firmly refuses to call him by his real name), to move his ass and start walking. “I’m coming home, Joe,” he chirps into his microphone because, hey, he is totally allowed to make Lassie references when Derek’s not around.

Jackson doesn’t even bother to reply.

***

The dark blue van is parked only half a block down the street and it takes just a few minutes to Stiles and his arrest to get there. Danny is the one who opens the back doors for them, grabbing Graham by a shoulder and pulling him inside before stepping back to let Stiles jump aboard.

Once Stiles is finally inside the vehicle he finds Jackson sitting in front of the equipment, arms crossed over his chest and foot tapping on the floor as if he is expecting Stiles to apologize for being late to their anniversary dinner or something. He doesn’t even move to help Danny when he guides Graham to sit on a small bench and cuffs him to a bar anchored right behind him.

Sitting behind the steering wheel, Boyd is reading a newspaper as if nothing. Bless him. Stiles has always had the neat sensation that, even if apocalypse should strike while they are still around, Boyd would just sip his beloved earl grey and quote someone very clever and creepy like, say, Poe. Or Derek. Because that’s just how Boyd rolls. In fact, he folds his newspaper and just starts the engine, doesn’t even turn around when Graham starts protesting once again, his loud voice echoing inside the van and making Stiles want to hit him with a club caveman-style.

“I can’t be kidnapped! I have kids!” he screams, wide-eyed and drenched in sweat. Which earns him another pitiful look because, logic, you are failing at it. Big time. And then, again- “I can pay! How much do you want to let me go? Just give me my phone and-”

“For the love of God,” Stiles finally snaps, “someone show him a badge!” Even if the drive to the head-quarters is relatively quick, he can’t stand this torture a moment longer. Plus, Stiles is pretty sure that neither Chris nor Derek would be exactly happy if they bring in a gagged man, no matter how pretty Stiles looks in his slutty attire.

Finally, thought, at the sight of Danny’s FBI badge, Graham seems to relax slightly, body collapsing on itself like a deflating hot air balloon and mouth falling shut with a perfectly audible _clack_. Victory, at last.

There are a few quiet minutes, which Jackson spends alternatively having a quite impressive eyebrow conversation with Danny and glaring at the handcuffed idiot sitting right in front of him. Stiles watches his colleagues silently, letting the quiet, rumbling sound of the van’s engine fill his ears.

“Five minutes to headquarters,” Boyd tells them just as Stiles is stretching over the small equipment table to grab an open packet of Peanut M&M’s that must belong to someone who is not Jackson, seeing as that he hasn’t tried to bite Stiles’ hand off. Yet.

You can never be completely sure with Jackson.

But, before anyone has the time to chew any of Stiles’ limbs off, Graham comes magically back to life.

Yay.

“What!” he shouts for the umpteenth time. Really, this is getting old very quickly. “You can’t! I was just- And it isn’t like that bitch wasn’t consenting. Hey! Are you listening to me? I want a lawyer!”

So. Fucking. Annoying.

Luckily, Stiles seems to not be the only one who’s just had that thought, because Jackson uncrosses his arms and literally _snarls back at the guy_. “I still need to do my nails,” he hisses slowly, claws bleeding out his fingertips in one smooth motion. “Wouldn’t want to lend me a hand, do you? Or maybe a rib?” his lips are curved in an almost feral grin now, two rows of transparent, deadly teeth glinting dangerously in the poorly lit space of the van.

From his uncomfortable spot on the bench, Graham gasps in horror, making an aborted move as if a sudden need of melting together with the vehicle’s metal walls has suddenly hit him.

Jackson snorts derisively. “No? Too bad.”

But then Danny is giving him the stink eye because no, _bad Jackson_ , we are not supposed to scare people to death, not even when they are slimy assholes who totally deserve it, and Jackson’s claws are suddenly retreating as if they were never there, his knee hitting Danny’s in what is meant to look like a casual gesture but Stiles knows it’s not.

Sudden, welcomed quietness fills the air around them.

***

The happy, tinkling sound of the elevator’s doors closing behind him is the first thing that makes Stiles realize how tired he is. It’s way past two in the morning and it’s been way too many hours since he’s had his last cup of coffee, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t gotten a moment of rest since Lydia has dragged him out of bed this morning. Poor mattress, it must be missing Stiles, all alone in a dark, silent bedroom while Stiles is out chasing criminals, luring them in dark, misty alleys with the promise of a blowjob.

Beside him, Boyd is casually leaning against the interior mirror wall of the elevator, a barely-there smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he taps something on his phone. Stiles wonders if he’s either texting Derek something like _‘mission accomplished’_ or merely making sure that Isaac hasn’t yet died in a moronic way while Boyd and Danny aren’t home to keep an eye on him.

Probably the second one, seen how once Isaac has almost burned the whole house down to ashes by forgetting to put water into the pot where he was supposed to _boil his pasta_. And, sure, Isaac is a brilliant kid most of the time, what with him always coming up with the most effective tactics and his superb eye for details, but household chores just aren’t his thing.

Stiles smirks, and then realizes that Danny is shooting him one of his patented _sometimes I wonder if your head is actually filled with gummy bears_ look. Which usually leaves Stiles with conflicted feelings because, hey, that would be totally awesome, and would also mean that he could totally avoid worrying about getting his brain eaten if Zombies should happen to want to feast on him.

His smile widens. Danny rolls his eyes.

The elevator comes to a halt just a moment later. “See you in the morning,” Jackson says just as the elevator doors open to the empty hallway of the ground floor.

“Sure,” Stiles and Boyd reply at the same time. Danny just smiles, affectionately patting Jackson on the shoulder.

Just as he’s getting pushed out of the small space, Graham shoots Stiles a resentful look. Stiles bares his teeth in a cheeky grin. “Adieu, Cherie,” he chirps, waving to the guy as Jackson finally manhandles him away.

The lights of the third floor are almost all turned off when Stiles, Boyd and Danny get there, exception made for half the open space, the kitchenette and Derek’s office.

Everything is strangely quiet and Danny waves Stiles and Boyd off without too many compliments as soon as they are out of the elevator, quickly vanishing down the corridor that leads to the computer room.

“I still can’t believe you guys are actually living together,” Stiles tells Boyd as they make their way between desks and empty waste paper baskets, walking towards Derek’s office.

“It’s been almost two years,” Boyd deadpans. “And we are not _living together_. Isaac’s there too, you know.”

“Of course he is, or he would have died for starvation by now. That kid wouldn’t be able to look after himself not even if his life depended on it, which, hey, it kind of does.” Isaac is the exact, human personification of one of those absolutely cute puppies who can learn a lot of smart tricks like _play dead_ and _high five_ and then fall down the stairs because sometimes their limb coordination will just _fail them_. “Plus Danny totally enjoys taking care of him and feeding him and, you know, basically- Wait. Is Isaac your kept boy? Are you guys actually _threesoming_ behind my back, Boyd?”

In response, Boyd just groans and walks straight into Derek’s office. Stiles doesn’t know why but he has the sudden impression that Boyd would be slamming the door in his face if he only could.

From where he is hunched over his desk, writing a long string of words on what looks like a very official report, Derek grunts in sympathy. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, strengthening Stiles’ suspects that he wasn’t held enough as a baby.

“Tell that to Stiles’ ass,” Boyd replies. “Jackson was this close to go and offer to suck the guy’s dick himself.”

“Jackson can suck _my_ dick,” Stiles says, knowing even too well that there is no point in muttering between himself when he is in a room with freaky supernatural beings.

“Don’t think so.” Derek’s voice doesn’t even waver, his tone verging between annoyed and _Stiles, why do you even possess the gift of speech?_ as always. It’s kind of peculiar and it makes Stiles want to poke at the side of Derek’s neck, just because. Though he watches himself from actually doing it, because he doesn’t want to end up lying on one of Lydia’s steel tables, thank you very much.

However, this doesn’t mean that he can’t have a bit of fun. “Hey there, cutie,” he chirps as if the previous conversation didn’t just happen, advancing into the small room until his crotch is pressing against the edge of the desk and his palms are flat over its wooden surface. “You done working?” he then asks a flutter of eyelashes later.

Derek doesn’t even look up. “I made some coffee,” he announces in a bored tone, blatantly ignoring Stiles’ deficient attempt at flirtation. He tips the end of his pen to the right, pointing at the small kitchenette right outside the room.

“Marry me,” Stiles says. Because when a man brews you coffee, the least you can do is propose to him, ensuring that no one else will ever be able to benefit of their coffee-making abilities. Then, since it’s never too late – or too early, depends – for coffee, he turns around, leaving Boyd alone with Derek to deal with bureaucratic shit as he makes a beeline towards the marble counter where a large, white ceramic mug of black, blessed espresso is waiting for him.

He takes a sip, enjoying the way the liquid feels warm and familiar against his tongue, and lets an ecstatic moan escape his lips. Outside the floor to ceiling windows the city lights blink back at him, reminding him that there is an actual world outside this building and the people enclosed in it. That, more than anything else, pushes him into pouring the rest of his coffee down the sink’s drain and pick the keys of his jeep from his desk, where he’d left them hours before.

Boyd is sitting on a plastic chair in front of Derek’s desk when Stiles walks into the office, his left shoulder finding the door frame and leaning against it. “Time to call it a night,” he says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the sight of Derek’s messed up air. Must have been a long reports-filled night for it to be reduced like that.

At that Derek lifts his eyes from the map Boyd is showing him, red dots and lines standing out between the black and white mess of streets and squares. “Get some sleep,” he says, the deep lines of concentration around his eyes smoothing out, making his expression look softer.

He doesn’t add _you look like shit_ , but Stiles hears it anyway, can read it from the way Boyd is glancing at him, from how Derek’s fingers are twitching around the highlighter in his hand, as if what he really wants to do is snatch Stiles’ keys away and drive him home himself.

Stiles blinks, straightening his posture. “Sure,” he grins. “See you tomorrow.”

***

 _Don't call my name. Don't call my name, Alejandro. I'm not your babe. I'm not your babe, Fernando_ , Stiles’ alarm radio starts singing at eight o’clock in the morning, proceeding then to inform Stiles about how much Lady Gaga is a tease who doesn’t want neither to kiss nor to touch anyone’s dick.

“Nfgh-uck,” Stiles whimpers in despair, rolling to the opposite side of the bed and pulling the duvet over his head. Too bad that no bed cover is soundproof enough to shield a sleepy man against weird pop singers who manage to mix together second and third person without any regret.

Shortly, that’s the story of how, less than ten minutes later, Stiles finds himself stumbling out of the bathroom and into the living room, pajama pants clinging low to his narrow hips and bare feet enjoying the warmth of the light parquet floor.

“Morning,” he yawns to Lydia’s very awake, very busy figure.

From where she’s bent over the coffee table, Prada bag wide open and a phone charger in her hand, she looks up, giving Stiles an once-over. “You look like shit,” she offers back.

Of course. Always trust Lydia to do the dirty job when no one else could.

“Well,” Stiles huffs, diving face-first onto the leather couch and wriggling his way onto it until his head is resting against Lydia’s thigh. “Getting only three hours of sleep tends to do that, yes.” They stay there for a few minutes, Stiles lazily blinking at the ceiling and Lydia silently filling her very pricey bag with all sort of very pricey amenities that Stiles would have never imagined a girl could require before meeting her.

Hell, before Lydia, there had definitely  been a long list of things that Stiles would‘ve never imagined could happen to him. Sharing a house with such a hot girl being on the very top of it, followed at close distance by learning how to cook a perfectly delicious ratatouille – it’d taken three days to Stiles to only _understand_ how to pronounce it correctly – and recognize the differences between arsenic and cyanide poisoning.

Slowly, day by day, living with Lydia has also taught Stiles how much of a beautifully polyhedral person she is. Or that Jackson’s naked ass can appear in the most weird places when you least expect it. Uh.

“Do you want me to drive you to work?” Stiles asks after a few minutes, his sleepiness finally being washed away by the bright, early morning light filling the room.

Lydia pats him on the arm. “I’m meeting Allison for breakfast,” she says, finally zipping her bag. Stiles briefly wonders how the hell she is capable to always walk with something so heavy dangling from her arm and still look as graceful as a tiny, perfect bellflower.

“Tell her I said hi,” he nods, craning his neck back so he can glance at Lydia’s face and catching a strand of her hair between two fingers. “Also, I can see the insides of your nostrils from here. They look very-” Lydia's eyebrows quiver in an alarming way, “-human.” _Time to shut your mouth, Stilinski_ , a very wise voice says into Stiles’ mind.

Sniffing in a very dignified way, Lydia snatches her hair back, grabbing her bag from the table and getting up from the couch. “I’ll bring muffins,” she tells him with the same tone a normal person would use to say _I’ll eviscerate you and feast on your pitiful remains_.

Good thing that by now Stiles has gotten used to Lydia’s half scary, half lovely ways to deal with people, or he would end up locking himself in his room at night, utterly terrified that she might stab him in his sleep with a hairpin or something. “Your angelic voice is music to my ears,” he waves happily from his comfortable spot on the couch, stretching until he’s conquered it all.

Lydia drops a magazine flat on his face. “Fuck you,” she grins. And then, with a last, smug sniff, she’s out of the room and closing the door behind her.

As soon as she’s gone too loud silence fills the air and, for a second, Stiles almost feels like he can’t breathe, like the living room is suddenly too large and too bare with no other sound aside from his own heartbeat decorating it, painting its walls in laughs and whispered words and then- Then his stomach rumbles in a very indicative way, breaking the moment and pushing him into finally getting up and walking into the kitchen.

Time to get some breakfast.

***

The FBI headquarters is a pretty impressively large, low building made of caramel brown bricks and wide windows. Stiles has always liked it, finding quite beautiful the way it just kind of _stands_ there, bulky and imposing and yet so reassuring in its warm color. It also helps that there’s a big terrace covering half of the sixth floor, which Scott and Stiles are used to sneak up to from time to time, mostly when they are trying to enjoy their coffees and Derek – or Erica, they seem to be easily interchangeable – has decided that _annoying bitch_ is the daily theme he wants to go for.

When Stiles gets to the entrance there is a large group of people, probably lawyers, if their haute couture suits and the way they keep frantically checking the time are of any indication, standing in front of the glass doors and almost blocking them entirely.

Stiles makes his way between them efficiently, muttering a couple insincere excuses when he steps on someone’s Italian leather shoes – ah! –, and then bypasses two visibly angry policemen who seem very occupied with barking complaints about authority abuse all over a young, stone-faced agent. Stiles recognizes him as one of Chris’ team- Brian? Brendon? He isn’t really sure of the guy’s name. Though Stiles is pretty confident that he will send the two officers back to their station with only a few, well-placed words.

After all, Chris isn’t considered one of the best – only – for his pretty face.

When Stiles finally gets to the elevators Isaac is there too, hair already a mess and arms full of a tall stack of dossiers that looks almost too heavy even for him. “Hey,” he smiles when Stiles stops right beside him.

“Hey, you,” Stiles smiles back, briefly considering if offering or not his help even if he knows that Isaac and his Hulk-strong muscles don’t need it. The innate gentleman in him wins. “You wanna a hand with these?”

Isaac blinks just as the elevator doors open. “What? Oh, no, thanks, I’m good,” he blushes, entering right after an old lady who looks like she could single-handedly disassemble a gun in less than a minute.

Stiles follows him at close distance and- “Second floor, please,” the old lady says with a tone that promises dark and very painful things to whoever won’t obey her and that sends a cold shiver running down Stiles’ spine. Beside him, Isaac shrinks away as much as the cramped space allows him to.

“Of course ma’am.” Stiles presses the second and then third floor button and does his best not to look too intimidated.

They both breathe a sigh of relief when the scary lady wishes them a fruitful day and imperiously walks out of the elevator. Strangely, Stiles is left with the sensation that he’s just survived a close encounter with a very dangerous predator.

“I think Derek and Boyd found something last night,” Isaac tells Stiles as they walk into the open space and towards their desks. Erica waves to them from her swivel chair, shifting the telephone receiver from a shoulder to the other and rolling her eyes to something, probably stupid, her interlocutor has just said. “I stumbled into them just as they were leaving,” Isaac goes on, dropping the dossiers over Scott’s desk and making the poor thing tremble in a worrisome way. “Derek asked me to get the phone records of the victims’ closer acquaintances and write down a list of their current addresses. These only belong to the first third of the names.”

Stiles eyes the pile of additional information with interest. “Good,” he nods, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of his own chair. “I’ll make sure to tell Scott you need help, once he gets here. I actually need to go through a bunch of tox screens but- Wait.” He narrows his eyes. “What time did you say you saw Derek?”

Isaac takes a step back. “I don’t think I- I mean, around eight am?” he offers at last, scratching the back of his neck and adjusting his glasses over his nose. Gestures that clearly show how relaxed he feels at the moment. Totally subtle.

Seriously, if Stiles didn’t already know it, he would totally laugh in the face of the man telling him that Isaac is a werewolf. And then he’d smack Derek on the stupid nape attached to the back of his stupid head. Fucking hell, eight in the morning? Is he trying to beat the world record of sleep deprivation or what?

Of course, if pushing his body _this close_ to the breaking point would be of any help to anyone, Stiles would totally offer Derek his help, probably by sticking a funnel down his throat and making him swallow two or three gallons of energy drinks until Derek would be up and running like Road Runner on the finest drug ever invented.

But. And, see, there is a very large, very fat one sitting right onto the key point of Stiles’ argument. But. Their killer has already struck three times in the last month and a half and they’ve got nothing more than a handful of dust and stress in their hands.

And, yes, Stiles knows how frustrating the whole situation is, he gets how this sense of impotence and _defeat_ that fills them every time a new body is found would easily undermine anyone’s mental serenity, but that’s exactly why they shouldn’t give their killer what he wants, why they shouldn’t let their guard down.

They can’t afford to make mistakes because they're too tired to see what’s right under their nose. And Derek can’t afford to lose his focus. Not only because the team needs its captain but, most importantly, because the pack needs its Alpha.

Isaac’s expression changes into a cautious one. “Listen,” he tells Stiles, eyes huge and open, “I don’t think that you should be worrying. It’s just-” he pauses, lowering his voice. “Derek surely knows what he’s doing. He can take care of himself.”

Here there are, the words that Stiles was waiting for. Because, no matter how much professionalism Isaac, or Jackson, or Scott, _everyone in the pack_ could inject into their working relationships, the fact that, above everything else, they see Derek as their Alpha, and hence someone who’s absolutely in control and has the power to lead the pack- That’s the most dangerous of the things.

After all reality is only a maze made of mirrors and blind turns and truth is something that, as Stiles has learned during his life, can be bent and hidden more easily than one might think. And Stiles has seen Derek’s half empty fridge, the large bed that’s always made because he never sleeps on it, placed inside a bedroom that’s just too bare to deserve its name. Stiles has seen it all and has chosen to keep it to himself. Because, no matter what, Derek’s bond with the other werewolves in the pack, with the people whom he bit, is something that goes beyond Stiles’ comprehension.

Of course that doesn’t mean that Stiles isn’t part of the pack or that he’s less important – or less _loved_ , even if they almost never use that word – than anyone else, it’s just- Humans can’t just fully comprehend instincts. It isn’t part of their nature, logic always derailing them and clouding every thought of wildness and raw feelings.

Which is exactly why Stiles keeps his thoughts to himself, doesn’t tell Isaac that, in fact, no, Derek is just the kind of man who can’t see what’s best for him because he’s too worried about making other people’s lives easier.

“Derek is a moron,” Stiles at last tells Isaac, because it’s the truth. “Also, he better not show up in here before lunch time.”

***

Since first time they met, Stiles has known that Momo was _the one_ for him.

Erica’s been the one who has introduced them, tired of Stiles always bitching about styrofoam cups always toppling over and spilling coffee everywhere, perversely soaking every single sheet of paper Stiles had spent hours working on. Until, one day, Momo had been waiting for him, sitting over Stiles’ desk as if she already knew that she was gonna _stay_.

Because that’s exactly what had happened. It’s been two years since then and Stiles still loves his coffee mug like the first day, maybe even more. She is the only one keeping him company when some sick asshole is out there doing damage and Stiles and the team are forced to spend the night working, she is the one who keeps Stiles’ coffee blissfully hot when outside everything is covered in snow and that doesn’t threaten to spill dark liquids all over Stiles’ work.

Indeed, Momo is the best lover that Stiles could find. And, okay, maybe she can be a bit cold and, well, _rigid_ at times, but Stiles totally knows how to deal with that because, you know, _Derek_.

Anyway, Stiles is busy getting all close and personal with Momo and a couple more tox screens when Scotts gets into the office, bringing muffins in one hand and what is totally _a severed foot in a plastic bag_ in the other.

“What the fuck,” Stiles greets him, and then proceeds to carefully place Momo back onto the desk because, just, no.

Scott beams back at him as if he isn’t actually carrying a very dead, very _first stage of decay_ limb around. “Hey, buddy!”

Stiles watches him drop the muffins on the kitchenette counter and then wave to Isaac. “Nice beard you’ve got there, Lydia,” he says. Because, hey, if Scott is willing to ignore the big, fat ~~foot~~ elephant happily strolling in the room, Stiles is totally up with that.

“Allison says hi back,” Scott replies just as Erica snatches two muffins from the large hinged food container that he’s just abandoned. Trust sugars to work wonders when it comes to lure a woman somewhere. “Also, I think that Lydia might have a spanking paddle hidden somewhere in your apartment,” he then adds, because Stiles of course needs to know that.

“She totally does,” Erica intervenes, “I gave her one for Christmas.”

Stiles stares. _Hanging out with a herd of nutjobs_ was so not on the job description when he applied for the FBI. “I swear I just wanted a muffin,” he tells to the two of them as he gets up from his chair. “ _Besides_ , I already knew about the paddle, Scott. She doesn’t keep it hidden, she uses it as a chopping board. Says it makes her think of Jackson.”

“What does that even-”

Coffee. Stiles will need so much coffee and it’s not even eleven in the fucking morning. “Do I look like I want to lose my balls? Yeah. Exactly,” he nods when Scott’s eyebrows do the _oh wait_ _I’m this close to get it oh hey wow_ dance and his mouth snaps closed.

From where she is standing and munching on her last bite of muffin, Erica does a very poor job at hiding her evil smirk of evilness. “Give me that thing,” she tells Scott, pointing at the severed limb in his hand. “I’ve got nothing to do until that idiot of a journalist calls me back and I’ve heard that Isaac needs _you_.” Of course, the emphasis on the last word is something that Stiles doesn’t really want to examine too closely.

“I just need _help_!” Isaac clarifies from the other side of the room.

Scott has the decency to not blush (at least not too much) and hands her the plastic bag. “Thanks,” he smiles. “Chris told me that he also might need Lydia on the crime scene, so maybe she should give him a call after she’s done with this.”

“Noted.” And, with that, she’s off.

Stiles and Scott watch her sashay her way out of the room. “You think I’m still in time to switch to cake smuggling?” Scott asks after a second.

Stiles pats him on the shoulder. “I feel your pain. Also, let me know if you and Isaac find something about gym trainers. Seems like two of our victims frequented the same fitness center.”

“Sure,” Scott nods, a mahogany veil descending over the playfulness in his eyes and clouding it. “I’ll see you later.”

***

Apply to the FBI, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

Stiles had known very little of what he’d have to face, but he’d dove into it with all the enthusiasm of a young profiler willing to gain as much experience as it was possible.

But that burning eagerness is gone now, replaced by a new consciousness that he’s learned in the hard way. Broken bodies and souls, a long, large path dotted  with so much pain and, sometimes, total lack of any regret that would have normal people scream in their sleep, trash into their small, cold beds and beg for a way out, something that would make them forget. _Please_.

Anesthetized, that’s the word that Stiles would choose to describe himself now, after two years spent as a part of Mr. Hale’s – pff – team, after so many months spent facing the most terrible cases, running after psychopaths and serial murderers and so many dark powers. Still, he feels like this last case is the peak of something, like they’ve finally reached the higher point of a sharp Ferris Wheel and are dangling their feet into the nothingness. It’s a sensation that hasn’t abandoned him since the day Chris has assigned the case to them.

Stiles still remembers every tiny detail, from the faint smell of disinfectant of the room Chris had reunited them into for the meeting, to the broken nose and numerous bruises that Jackson had been sporting, proud parting gift of a particular nasty child kidnapper’s case solved.

At the time Stiles had thought it weird that Chris would just sit in front of them, not even saying a few words of introduction, but then the slide-show had suddenly illuminated the darkened space of the conference room and everything had become much clearer.

“Christ,” Derek had muttered, his eyes wide open in disbelief as the photos of the first body, the first girl – Caucasian, in her twenties, slowly died of extreme loss of blood –, had paraded, one after the other, in front of them.

One. Two. Three. In four weeks the killer had already managed to get his hands on so many young girls, killing them in the most horrific ways a human being could come up with.

“He’s growing more and more confident with every kill,” Chris had filled them in from where he'd been sitting, the only one of them whose eyes hadn’t been fixed on the screen, “taking his time to arrange the bodies in public places for us to find. The modus operandi has changed with each one of them, but there is a common factor that-”

“The makeup,” Boyd had interrupted him, “was it applied ante or post mortem?”

Chris had inhaled in a way that Stiles had interpreted as reluctant. “Good observation, agent Boyd. The makeup has been applied post mortem. Standing to our coroner’s results, our man took his time to remove the makeup that had been applied by the victims’ themselves and replaced it.”

“Looks like he’s treating them like dolls,” Erica had joined in, leaning over the table to take a closer look at the screen. “But to be so skilled with makeup- Do we know if the girls were raped?”

There was no easy way to ask that kind of question, nor was it easy to think of the possible answers and, yet, in their job, both things needed to be done. “No,” Chris had shaken his head. Stiles had briefly wondered if, maybe, Allison’s face was the one he saw each time he looked at those pictures. “Nothing about this seems to be about sex.”

“I didn’t think so,” Stiles had commented, reclining back on his chair. “Just look at it. The extreme care with the details, the places the victims were found- Everything leads to believe the he wants a recognition for the work he’s done.” As sick and repulsing as it could be, that had been the only possible explanation.

“Yes. And that leads us to the last piece of information you need to know,” Chris had nodded, handing a stack of files to Derek. “Our man also happens to be a witch. He enchants the bodies to be invisible to the eye until the time he decides the show is allowed to start. Because of this, you’ll need to be extra careful and, more than ever, think out of the ordinary.”

Everyone had nodded in reply, taking their dossiers as Jackson had distributed them. “We’ll need to visit the crime scenes,” Derek had said, eyes scrolling over the reports in his hands. “Also, I’ll have Lydia come over and exchange a few words with your coroner, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. You’ll have our full cooperation on this,” Chris had replied before heading to the door. “I expect you to get him. The sooner, the better.”

With that, he’d been out of the door and the hunt had started.

***

Wednesday late morning sees Stiles hurriedly wrestle his way inside his jacket, phone between his teeth, as Lydia and her pitiful look follow his movements from the coziness of their couch. “Hafhe hu sheen mah kfeys?” he sputters, patting the pockets of his pants for the Jeep’s keys.

Lydia’s fingertips skid over the fabric of the couch, casually following its pattern. “You know,” she says, pensively, “sometimes I wonder if I should just film you and sell it to the highest bid.”

Having tamed his jacket into submission, Stiles takes his phone out of his mouth. “Come on,” he whines, bending over to look under the entrance table. Where did the damn keys go?

“Or maybe I could invite people over and have them paying,” Lydia continues, absolutely unperturbed by the fact that Stiles is _so_ going to be late for lunch date with his dad. “We could sell these cute, little bags of popcorn and-”

“Okay, fine!” Stiles throws his hands in the air, exasperated. He might as well just go down to the garage and try to hotwire his car; after all, people do it constantly in movies. Can’t be so difficult, right? “I’ll totally come back and haunt you if I end up electrocuted,” he points his finger in Lydia’s direction.

As a reply she just yawns, absolutely unimpressed. “Your neurons are a particularly fascinating kind of crazy. Here,” she picks up something steel-glinting from the couch, throwing it at Stiles.

Thanks to his quick reflexes, he catches the keychain quite easily and, at the same time, manages to avoid getting his palm stabbed by the keys attached to it. Which totally counts as a win, thank you very much. “They are not,” he grins. “You’d be all around them if they weren’t, you know, nerve cells. Sexy ones. With their super sexy electrical power and, uhm, general _debauchery_. Or because of Jackson. Yeah, his reptilian, poisonous claws could also be a problem.”

Lydia blinks in a way that suggests she’s not following him anymore because there are things in this world that should just be left alone and not poked with a stick only to see if they will explode. Of course, Stiles’ nonsensical rambles are on the top five of that list.

“I thought you had an appointment,” she says, candidly, as if she hasn’t been hiding Stiles’ keys only a few minutes before.

“Fuck,” Stiles swears, shooting a look at the clock. He’s way beyond late, and his dad is gonna start eating without him and just steal all the jumbo shrimps from Stiles’ paella because that’s his subtle, cold-hearted way to punish his impudent son. “I would never haunt you!” he shouts to Lydia just as he closes the door behind himself.

Coherence, Stiles lost it so many years ago.

Luckily, it doesn’t take Stiles more than twenty minutes to get to Don Pepe, the Spanish restaurant that Scott and him have discovered a few months ago during a late afternoon stroll. There had been many tapas and lots of shots of tequila involved in the discovery, which had (not unsurprisingly) left them quite enthusiast about the place. So Stiles leaves his Jeep in the parking lot and hops out of it, humming between himself as he walks into the restaurant.

Five minutes later Stiles and his dad are sitting in a red leather booth, facing each other and quietly sipping their sodas. It’s a thing between the two of them, the lunches, a tradition that John has started after he retired and Stiles started with the FBI, something that keeps them connected even though they don’t have the chance to talk in person as frequently as they used to. Stiles likes it, enjoys the way it reminds him of his mom and her special Sunday pancakes, the ones that she used to decorate with too much chocolate syrup and fruit, always pairing them with coffee for Stiles’ dad and a glassful of warm milk for her little boy. It’s nothing like it used to be and, yet, it’s still something.

“I went down to the station to see the guys, yesterday,” John tells Stiles just as a waiter brings them a huge plate full of steamy, deliciously smelling rice. “Seems like Allison is doing wonders.”

Yeah, Stiles had already heard that from Scott. How Allison had started teaching self defense at the police station, how she had a hard time at the beginning, her slim, frail-looking figure being her own enemy and forcing her to work twice as hard to get any respect, any recognition for her work. But Stiles knows well what she’s capable of, has spent too many hours trying to ward off her blows as they trained together. Like Scott, he’s never had a single doubt that Allison would succeed. “Didn’t really expect any less from her,” he says, because it’s the truth.

John nods, the skin around his eyes crinkling in what looks like fondness.  “She’s always been a smart girl. Chris must certainly be very proud of her.”

“He is, in his own way.”

Both Stiles and John know that Chris isn’t the kind of man who just talks about this kind of thing, that he doesn’t go and show Allison’s pictures to his co-workers and that he won’t let Scott tell anyone outside the team about the fact that he’s dating the daughter of a superior officer. Chris Argent is a pretty secretive motherfucker, there is no other way of putting it, not only about this, but also about any other private aspect of his life. As in, for example, the fact that his sister – Kate, that’s her name – once broke Derek’s heart, not only by toying with his feelings but, mostly, by setting his house on fire and, with it, all the people inside it.

Neither Chris nor Derek ever talk about that. They never mention the fact that Peter Hale, Derek’s uncle, the only person who’d survived the fire, has killed Kate with his very hands and is currently living a retired life in Scotland, no accusations dangling over his head like a bloodied Damocles’ Sword. There are so many things that Chris doesn’t talk about and, sometimes, Stiles can’t decide if that’s a blessing or not.

“I think Scott is gonna propose soon,” Stiles offers after a moment of quietness. There is a small family sitting only a couple tables away and he watches, amused, as two kids munch their way around a plateful of nachos, small fingers greasy with melted cheese and toothless grins mirroring their parents’ relaxed ones. “I caught him looking at the Tiffany’s website last time I went to his house. He denied it but he was totally checking the rings out.”

John shoots a glance over his shoulder, following Stiles’ gaze, then focuses back on his son, the green of his eyes molding into something more _consistent_ than before. It makes Stiles want to blink and wash it away. “Melissa would be very happy,” he says, quietly, “she’s always liked Allison.”

“That’s exactly what I told him.” There is something that’s scratching at the back of Stiles’ head, almost like the feeling he gets when he knows he’s missing something, but he just can’t understand what. Sometimes, the profiler instincts in him kick in during the most weird of the situations and he can do nothing to stop them, random information and details will just crowd his mind, adjusting in patterns and fractals, dancing and dancing and dancing until everything will finally make sense. Only it seems that his dad is Stiles’ kryptonite or something- Not that he’s green. Or alien. Or even being used by a super villain to defeat Stiles. He just- He just seems to be able to totally fuck up Stiles’ instincts with his _sheriff of the year here everyone_ attitude. Because Stiles’ dad is just awesome like that.

It doesn’t take much before the conversation is slowly drifting from Scott to the rest of the pack, John asking how the guys are, if Danny has yet decided to take over the world with his mad computer skills or how Erica’s adventure with her Blue Moon rose,  the one with petals of a particular shade of lilac, is going- John wants to know everything.

So Stiles talks, tells him about Erica and Danny, and how Boyd almost got accidentally poisoned during one of their latest training sessions, he rants about Jackson being always naked in his apartment – “He’s trying to secretly seduce me, I know it, dad!” – and about the fact that an old lady has managed to boss him around in an elevator. He talks and talks, about Derek and the fact that he hasn’t any sleeping habits anymore because he’s literally not sleeping _at all_ , or how he just stubbornly keeps proclaiming that he only likes tea when everyone knows that he’s always stealing Stiles’ coffee.

John nods and joins in with a few comments from time to time, but doesn’t never really interrupt him and, when it finally comes to his job, Stiles still tries to stay earnest as much as he can. “They are good. We are-” he licks his lips. “We're working on this case. It’s really nasty stuff, you know, young girls brutally murdered and no clue how to find the culprit. It’s been a really stressful month,”

There has been a time when Stiles had been a kid kneeling on the kitchen chair, thin fingers pointing at pictures of crime scenes as his dad had been the one doing the talking, filling him in so Stiles could give his opinion, help him to find a new point of view, the clue that he’d missed. But now, it’s like the roles are reversed, and Stiles thanks silently his dad when he doesn’t push it further, doesn’t ask for more information than what Stiles has just told him. “Isaac phoned me two days ago,” he says instead, pushing a pea around his plate.

Stiles’ phone goes off right then, taking them both aback. “Shit,” he says, shooting an apologetic look to his dad when John raises one disapproving eyebrow. There are times when Stiles feels like he’s fifteen all over again. “Sorry,” he apologizes, more out of habit than anything, as he checks the caller ID. And then- “Gotta take this one.”

Turns out that Stiles’ day off has just been revoked, since a new body has been found and Derek needs him at the headquarter _the day before yesterday_ Jackson tells him before hanging up. Ah, see if Stiles isn’t going to bitch about that all the way from the restaurant to the office. Maybe he’ll also bitch about it on the elevator too, if he feels like it.

“Pompous bastard,” he mutters between himself just as he stomps out of the restaurant, his dad waving him away from where he’s sitting in front of one of the juiciest steaks Stiles has ever seen. Derek is going to owe him big time.

***

Sadly Stiles isn’t granted the joyful opportunity of bitching about Jackson’s bad manners in the elevator, because when he gets to headquarters Scott is waiting for him at the entry, arms crossed over his chest and eyes darker than usual. He greets Stiles with a few, dry words before leading him down to the corridor and towards the morgue.

Beside him, Stiles stays silent. Scott’s clenched jaw and the way he just keeps looking in front of himself, blinking too many few times and _so slowly_ , tells him everything he needs to know.

“A passerby stumbled into her. Literally,” Scott at last says, he’s inhaling deep, but his face is starting to lose a bit of that hard edge made of rage and utter repulsion from a minute before. “The bastard had left her in the middle of the pedestrian zone right in front of the mall. By the time we got there the crime scene had been more than contaminated.”

Oh. So that’s why Jackson had told Stiles to come directly to the headquarters, not even mentioning the crime scene. He didn’t mention it because there wasn’t one. Not anymore. “He’s getting smarter.”

Scott inhales. “I know.”

Another few steps, they are just outside the morgue. “This is a warning signal. We need to hurry up.”

“I know!” Dust lazily flutters down from where Scott’s fist has collided with the concrete wall, cracks spreading all over it like a too real, inelegant cobweb.

In the well-lit hallway, Stiles can see the color of Scott’s eyes trembling as if being submersed by an improvise, unstoppable wave and he knows that there are fangs pressing against the soft, wine-red skin of his lips, claws elongating against the palms that he stubbornly keeps clenched. Scott looks like a very thin violin string, and Stiles doesn’t want to know what his last note will be.

“Hey,” he tries to talk to his friend. Because that’s what Scott is, before everything else, Scott will always be the brother Stiles has never had, or the one he just found along the way. “Scott, listen to me. I know this is horrible, and I know that you hate it, we all do.” He takes a step forward, makes sure to move slowly even when his hand finds Scott’s shoulder and rests there, warm and solid and so real- “But that’s exactly what the bastard wants. He wants us blinded with rage, wants to watch the FBI run all over town, chasing him, giving him the thrill he craves so much. And that’s why we can’t lose our focus, that’s why we won’t.” Scott is visibly starting to relax now, but Stiles just keeps going, knows he needs to bury his words deep inside Scott’s chest, where no sick bastard would be able to dig them out and burn them like fog under sun rays. “We won’t let him make the rules, we won’t let him collar us and walk us around the fucking town like damn dogs.  _We won’t_. We’ll catch him, man. I promise.”

When Stiles blinks again, every sign of wildness has drained from Scott’s eyes. He’s back in control, finally. “You know,” he says, placing a hand over Stiles’ and squeezing, “sometimes I feel an insane urge to kiss you.”

Stiles grins. “Oh, baby, I thought you’d never ask.”

He’s briefly pondering if he should pull Scott into one of those awkward, manly hugs that they will never speak about ever again, when Erica opens the door of the morgue, her blonde head standing out against the steel-grey of the door-frame in a quite fascinating way, like the two things are rivaling for a _most shiny thing nearby_ trophy or something.

“If you ladies are done, there is some work to do.”

***

“The acid has been injected inside the abdominal cavity by using a hypodermic syringe,” Lydia says, her latex gloved hands skidding delicately over the victim’s – Mandy, according to the ID tag attached to her toe – chest and stopping right over her navel. “This resulted in her insides melting very rapidly, causing profuse internal bleeding. Which has also been the cause of the death, of course.”

“Any chance she was already dead before it happened?” Erica asks from where she’s leaning against one of the counters.

There are a few bottles of colorful nail polish behind her, blotches of red, indigo, even green that make a sharp contrast with the general aseptic atmosphere of the room. In her own unusual way, Lydia has tried to insert a tiny slice of normal even here, where the dead sleep and the air is motionless and cold, _silent_. Stiles thinks it’s strangely comforting.

“Sadly no,” Lydia says from where she’s leaning over the girl, her long, red hair hidden under a polka dotted scrub hat. “Look at this,” she gestures at the screen on the wall, moving the camera over Mandy’s still figure. “Her face has been cleaned of the blood, but there are still traces of it inside her nose. Also, there are extended hematomas both on her abdomen and her back. She probably fainted due to the intense pain before dying, but I’ll need to give her a closer look before I can tell you anything more.”

Which means that Lydia is just about to use her very shiny, very sharp toys on the girl. Something, a morbid kind of curiosity maybe, paws at Stiles’ ribcage, pins him in place as, instead, Scott and Boyd quickly exit the room. Erica just stays where she is, she probably must have seen this plenty of times, seen the amount of hours she spends down here with Lydia.

The girl, Mandy, looks so fragile over that table, so young for her twenty-three years, still nothing more than a blossoming flower and- Wait. “What’s that?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“What’s what?” Lydia asks, eyes intent on the deep line her scalpel is cutting into the victim’s chest.

“That thing on her hand, look.” It looks like a discolored tattoo from where Stiles is standing, just a series of short lines placed together. He takes a step closer, something suddenly clicking in his mind, pushing him into motion.

Lydia’s raised hand stops him, though. “No getting near my girl, Stilinski,” she warns him right before leaning over Mandy’s hand. “Looks like a stamp from here.”

Erica steps right beside Stiles. “Does it look like a club stamp? Something we can work with?”

“Yes,” Lydia nods. “Half of it has been cancelled, the skin probably absorbed the ink. But if it’s supposed to be symmetric- Probably an octagon, I’d say.”

It takes only a second for the realization to hit, before three hearts are skipping a beat at the same time. “Fucking hell,” Stiles mutters. It can’t be. Not under his nose. Not while-

“Stiles,” Erica’s voice diverts him from his thoughts. “If that’s an octagon, we need to talk to Derek. It might mean nothing but we can’t leave anything to chance.”

On the other side of the room, Lydia has already pushed herself into motion and is throwing away her gloves and grabbing paper and pen from her desk. “There have been three other victims before her. I can run some tests, see if their skin has absorbed the ink like in this case- Chris’ men, they wouldn’t have noticed it, wouldn’t even know what to look for.”

An octagon. The Octagon. Before being killed, this girl has been inside the same club Stiles has been going undercover for almost a year now, could have been dancing with the killer right in front of Stiles' eyes and he _wouldn’t have noticed it_. “I need to speak to Derek,” Stiles hears himself say, his own voice sounding unsteady even to his own ears. He breathes, once, twice, until his lungs don’t feel like they are too big for his chest anymore. “Lydia, I need you to give those tests absolute priority. If there’s a red thread tying all the victims together, we need to know it.”

“Already on it.”

“Erica, take Boyd with you, go pay a visit to the victim’s family and, if she has one, her boyfriend. Ask if you can take a look around in her room, her computer, her _library_ , whatever you think it’s important.” Once the pieces are on the board, there isn’t any other chance but to play.

Erica is out of the room a short nod and a “Sure,” after, phone in her hand and the stride of a tiger who’s just found her next prey.

Stiles, too, doesn’t lose time and, with a last promise from Lydia to keep him updated, he goes to find Derek.

***

Derek’s office comes so close to the definition of ‘dark cave’ that some of the youngest recruits are even scared of passing in front of it, having been warned about the dangerous wolf that leads the Supernatural Section with an iron fist and the mighty power of his undefeatable eyebrows.

Danny sometimes tells Stiles everything about it during their brief _let’s bond over our mutual love for coffee_ dates. Stiles doesn’t snicker, because of course he’s more professional than that, but there have been a couple times when he’s gotten coffee in his nose. Accidentally. As in fact that has nothing to do with Derek’s ridiculously tender, _not really thorny I’m just pretending for the crowd_ self being demonized thing.

Also the fact that, whether Derek is in it or not, Derek’s office is a happy island of peace, his perfectly comfortable, luxurious couch a safe shelter where someone, say, Stiles, could totally take a nap without being disturbed- Well, that does nothing but make the whole thing even more hilarious. Or useful. Depends on the amount of actual sleep Stiles is running on.

Thing is, Derek never uses his couch to take a nap. Must be some kind of self-imposed ban or something, or maybe Derek is just being a stingy wolf and doesn’t want to ruin it. You can never be one hundred percent sure with him.

All of the above it's the reason why Stiles knows with absolute certainty that, although resembling a very serious case of sleep-deprived zombie, Derek is going to be right where Stiles expects him to be. Namely, his desk.

Of course, that’s the only one time Derek chooses  to prove him wrong. Go figure. In fact, Stiles finds him sitting at his own desk which, hey, okay with sharing properties and not having any secrets with the others of the team but- “A water pipe broke right over Chris’ office,” Derek tells him as Stiles approaches, “I lent him mine until the damages will be repaired.”

“I need to talk to you,” Stiles replies bluntly. Because Chris rubbing all over Derek’s office while Derek is out here rubbing all over Stiles’ desk is a topic that can be discussed later, possibly drunk and with a couple sober people that will film it all for posterity. For now, they need to have a very serious conversation, for once in a while.

Derek’s eyes shoot up from the document he’s reading, suddenly intent. “What,” he barks.

Then it’s like Stiles can’t stop himself, as he places his palms against the steady surface of the desk, so familiar under his fingers and yet so alien as he talks and talks and talks, tells Derek everything they’ve discovered and even more, the what if’s and the maybe’s, how Stiles doesn’t want to cling too much to this faint spark of hope because it could suddenly be dissolved like smoke under rain _and yet_. Yet a lazy, quiet snake coiled inside Stiles’ chest is hissing to him that that’s the right path, that they only need to crawl a bit further, sink their teeth and let the poison seep in-

Derek stays silent for long, watches Stiles under dark, long eyelashes. “This might be bigger than we’d originally thought,” he murmurs at last, syllables taking their time to roll off his tongue. And then he’s standing, facing Stiles from the same height now-  “I will need to talk to Chris about these new developments.”

“No,” Stiles is saying before he can even think about it. “No, I can do that for you.” Because there are too large, too dark circles under Derek’s eyes, blood-red veins spreading all around his irises like the most pitiful of the artworks. “I’ll talk to Chris while you go home and finally get some sleep.”

“Stiles, I can’t-”

“Don’t even start with your ‘it’s my duty to be here’ speech, I’ve heard it way too many times for it to still be convincing,” Stiles interrupts him, places a hand over Derek’s and lets their pulses speak a much more primeval, much more valid language. “You’ve done a really fucking good job in these past days. Now, you’ll go home and sleep eight consecutive hours and I’ll talk to Chris. Okay?”

Derek’s hand is still where Stiles’ is keeping it, large and hot, a paradox that Stiles feels like he wants to protect. “Okay,” Derek nods, reluctant. He must know by himself that he can’t go on any longer like this. “But if you find anything. _Anything_. I mean it, Stiles-”

On any other occasion Stiles would have made a joke, probably, let Derek’s seriousness easily slip away as he tried to replace it with an easy grin. But not now, not today. “Don’t turn off your phone,” Stiles tells him. They have reached a mutual agreement.

Slowly, as if finally the weight of all the nights he’s spent working instead of resting is coming back to him, Derek grabs his things from Stiles’ desk, piles some papers before slipping them in his office bag along with a laptop and a couple of Mont Blanc pens. Trust Derek to be a snob about such tiny details. “Thank you,” he rumbles when he’s done. And, before Stiles can even realize it, he’s being dragged against Derek’s chest, his fingertips a strong presence against Stiles’ spine and Derek’s mouth just a breath away from Stiles’ ear. “I can’t stand it when you boss me around like this.”

Stiles smiles, closes his eyes against the shiver that Derek’s low, tired voice sends straight down his back. It’s barely four in the afternoon, but this moment makes him feel like there is an endless night ahead of them. “Just go home,” he tells Derek, voice cautious as he opens his eyes.

Derek lets him go, the feeling of his body pressed against Stiles’ lingering even after he’s stepped away. “I will.” And, with that, he’s gone.

***

Chris Argent’s smile is kind of like the American version of Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster: many people during the years have claimed to have seen it surface from the quiet waters it lives in, but no one has real evidence of it. Also, misidentifications might have been committed, grins and smug smirks being exchanged for what they haven’t been.

After all, it is well known that this is exactly how legends are born and, much probably, being the sneakily cunning man that he is, Chris knew exactly that the fact would have brought him some kind of advantage. And that’s also why, when he knocks on the closed door of Derek’s office, Stiles is totally expecting the slightly surprised frown that greets him. “Stiles,” Chris says, looking up from his laptop screen, “what can I do to help you?”

“I think we found a lead.”

Only that bunch of words have the capacity of capturing Chris’ absolute attention as very few other things would. Suddenly, something sharpens in his blue eyes, bright, clear colors rearranging together into something that looks like it could burn miles and miles of land; Stiles watches it happen under the artificial light of the fluorescents. “Please, close the door behind you,” Chris prompts, crossing his arms over his chest. Ready to listen.

One hour later, they’ve moved their conversation to the conference room and Scott, Jackson, Isaac and Danny have joined them. They are all sitting around the rectangular table as Lydia, from the intercom, tells them about the tests that she’s currently running.

“So, referring to the time she was found this morning, I can tell with a certain accuracy that the stamp on the girl’s hand is two days old,” she drops the bomb.

Which means that the victim and Stiles were in the fucking same place the night she was killed. “Damn it!”

“You couldn’t have known it, man,” Scott tries to soothe his friend. He’s right, all of the people inside the room are familiar with the feeling of not having been able to save someone, of having been too late or too oblivious at the time. It’s something they have learnt to coexist with but that sometimes comes back to bite at them.

Lydia’s next words break the delicate bubble of silence filling the room. “No, he absolutely couldn’t have. I’ve also ran the tests on the previous three victims and none of them seemed to have received that or any other stamp on their hands. Which means that, apparently, our killer is picking his victims from random places.”

Beside Stiles, Isaac frowns. “He isn’t following any pattern? That’s what you are saying?”

It can’t be. Serial killers are usually very methodic people, even in their madness, they develop habits, they don’t do _random_ , unless it’s deliberate. And if that’s the case, then they might have underestimated their killer, a false step that might cost them another life. “What she’s saying is that the randomness itself might be our pattern,” Jackson says, his long fingers tapping on the smooth surface of the table as he leans forward.

“Entropy and negentropy,” Chris says, nodding. “Might be a good theory.”

“So basically what you are saying is that we are after a murdering psycho who finds his balance in chaos?” Erica looks just as unconvinced as Stiles feels, but what she is saying might actually make sense. “How do we catch him if we can’t predict his next move? All we know is that the victims are young females, it isn’t nearly enough for an accurate profiling.”

“Actually,” Stiles says, an unpleasant thought forming in his head as he speaks, “profiling is the last thing I’d worry about right now. That last victim- It was all too deliberate, the place where she was left to be found, the stamp on her hand. I mean, of course the killer had seen it when he’d abducted her, so why not take it off as he did with the makeup? Why would he willingly leave a trace like that behind himself?”

“He wants to play tag,” Chris reasons, slowly. His phone buzzes on the table, but he ignores it. “Also, the club’s choice might not be a coincidence. Danny,” he says, the tone of someone who’s used to give orders and see them executed, “I’ll need you to watch all the footage from the night that girl was in the club. Get someone else’s help if necessary but I want you to find out with whom she talked, danced, even shared oxygen with and for how long.”

“Yes, sir,” Danny nods. He and Jackson exchange a brief look and, a moment later, they are both standing up and exiting the room. After all, synchronization is totally a thing in their team.

“Lydia,” Chris adds, because the intercom is still open – Stiles can almost picture her, sitting at her desk while probably solving some kind of super advanced Sudoku and just being generally superior as she leaves the _groping in the dark_ part to them –, “I’m just temporarily replacing Derek here but since things might be a bit more complicated than we originally thought- I expect to find a copy of those exams on my desk when you’ll be done. Are we clear?”

A tinkling, metallic sound comes from the intercom, almost as if Lydia is playing with one of her rings, probably making it spin on her desk. “Sure thing, boss,” she replies, cheerful as a praying mantis. After that, the line goes dead.

Beside Stiles, Isaac shifts on his chair. “Is that all, sir?”

Outside the sky is turning a dark shade of orange, blue slowly starting to bleed out from the horizon. Stiles stretches his legs under the table and hopes for an affirmative reply.

“Yes. Yes, you can go home,” Chris waves them away with something that is probably meant to look like indifference but, really, only resembles affection.

When, a minute later, Isaac and Stiles get out of the room there is an identical smile lingering on their lips.

***

Werewolves are messy, voracious eaters, that’s one of the first things Stiles has learned about them. Even before hierarchy, wolfsbane and everything else, one of Stiles’ first lessons about werewolves has been that you don’t ever, under any circumstance, leave one of them – or just them, as in plural, if you are really unlucky – alone with your own meal. Unless your name is Lydia, of course. Because no man in his right mind would try to steal food from under the nose of a lady armed with scalpels and colonoscopes. Just- Not gonna happen.

So, yeah, that’s basically the main reason that drives Stiles into buying three pizzas from the usual place near the headquarter and pushing two of them into Isaac’s waiting hands. “I can cook,” Isaac objects to what Stiles hasn’t said, though his hands close around the warm cardboard boxes anyway.

Stiles’ car starts with a sound that resembles a snort. “Sure you can,” Stiles agrees, nodding in a gravely way. “I also believe that pandas would actually be able to take over the world if it wasn’t for their diet. You know, it’s hard to be scary when you are vegetarian.”

“I’m not a panda,” Isaac tries to sulk with no great success, seeing as he’s got something like three slices of pepperoni already stuffed in his mouth.

By the time Stiles drops him home, Isaac has managed to devour his pizzas and is already launching longing glances at Stiles’ dinner. “Paws off, buddy,” Stiles warns right before kicking him out of his Jeep. Doesn’t really matter if Isaac strolls around looking like a needy puppy most of the time, Stiles’ dinner is a line that can’t be crossed. Or a meal that can’t be eaten. Kind of the same thing.

Of course, being Stiles’ dad an ex-Sheriff, Stiles knows everything about what the perils of eating while driving are and knows all about the sanctions for such a violation. That’s exactly why he does his best to not get caught as he drives while munching on his pizza. Can’t really let those lessons go wasted.

When he gets home a few minutes later all the lights of the apartment are off, sign that Lydia must be either at Jackson’s or still at work. Most probably the second seeing as she still had a lot of work to do. People would probably never imagine it, but victims are so high maintenance.

Being quite thankful of the fact that, for once, Jackson’s naked ass isn’t going to assault him when Stiles least expects it – Stiles has had nightmares about it. Nightmares! And also one jizz-involved accident that he never thinks about –, he makes a beeline for his bedroom, casually dropping his jacket and backpack on the couch as he goes.

When he opens his room’s door Derek’s sleeping face is the first thing that greets him. “What the fuck,” he mutters, giving a look around to check that he’s really in his room and hasn’t, like, unconsciously broken into Derek’s apartment or something. Also because, eh, there is nothing really worth to steal there, so that would count as double idiocy.

Nope, though. This is definitely Stiles’ room, with his grey polka dotted socks hanging over a desk lamp and the atom-shaped digital clock blinking at him from one of the walls. Which means that Derek is soundly sleeping into Stiles’ bed. Again.

Stiles wouldn’t call it a tradition, mainly because they don’t have pre-fixated dates or anything to look forward to and don’t celebrate anniversaries and shit like that, but- But. This isn’t the first time that this has happened. To be honest, Stiles is almost happy because, hey, this is actually one of the first times that there is some residual space left for him on his bed (yes, he knows how that sounds and resents himself and all of his life choices), no Isaac, no Erica, no big, demanding werewolves rubbing all over Derek and using Stiles’ bed as a _nest_.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Stiles feels like each one of his joints is _this close_ to melt he’d totally throw a party. “You better not be drooling on my pillow,” he instead says, and then proceeds to undo his belt because he is fucking tired and his bed is singing filthy promises of comfort and warmth to his soul.

At least Derek has had the decency of shutting the curtains before passing out all over Stiles’ belongings so Stiles doesn’t have anything else to do beside getting rid of all of his clothes – the floor is such a handy, multifunctional surface – and quickly slip into his pajama. He probably should make some comments about the fact that Derek’s gun is laying over Stiles’ bedside table like a very creepy ornament, the kind that usually tends to freak people out. Normal people. Which Stiles is not. There is probably a document testifying such thing somewhere in the FBI’s archives.

Anyway, Derek is taking up most of the space, which really leaves Stiles with no other option but to childishly tug at the covers. “I thought I told you to go home,” he complains when Derek seems to come back to life and scoots over, making actual room for Stiles under the already nicely warm covers.

“Did,” Derek grumbles back, word almost made unintelligible by the fact that his face is mostly pressed into his pillow. Nonetheless, when Stiles curls against him, feet looking for the warm spot between Derek’s calves, Derek’s hand moves to his waist, gripping and tugging at Stiles’ pajamas until Stiles is trapped between the mattress and the weight of Derek’s massive arm.

Familiarity wasn’t a thing that Stiles had expected to find in the FBI and yet- “You better not crush me,” he instructs, words already slurred as he lets Derek’s quiet, steady breath lull him to sleep.

***

Stiles wakes up to the rumbling noise of rain filling his ears and Derek’s warm, heavy body sprawled half on top of him. He blinks slowly at the ceiling, mind still stuck in that cozy place between sleep and awareness, and lets himself enjoy the quietness of the room, the contrast it makes against the chaos out there, where drops of rain are powerfully hitting the windows and enveloping everything in humid grayness.

Draped all over Stiles, Derek is snoring quietly, that kind of peaceful, heavy breathing that makes  his features relax, making him look much younger and defenseless, making him look _human_. He’s not wearing a shirt and Stiles can see the shadows casted by faint light hitting the blue curtains dance all over his naked shoulder, the way his muscles look almost tender, as if made of clay, and each hollow of his body seems enhanced, only waiting to be touched. Stiles sniffs, moves his hand under the covers to scratch at his own belly and adjust his morning erection inside his pants.

It should probably be weird, this lack of boundaries with a co-worker, with someone that covers a higher rank, but somehow the distinction between job and personal sphere has always been very neat in their pack, and the fact that Derek is their supervisor at the office is only an addition to his duties as an Alpha. Derek takes care of all of them, that’s what he does.

So, no, Stiles doesn’t find it strange to wake up like this, contentment and warmth tingling under his skin and Derek’s body shielding him from the rest of the world.

There is a sudden shifting under the covers and then Derek’s mouth comes to rest against the tender spot at the base of Stiles’ neck, lips moving in what is probably meant to be a word but only comes out as a muffled, sleep-rough sound.

From where he’s half buried under him Stiles chuckles, a short, lazy vibration that expands from his chest to Derek’s body before quietly dissipating. “Come on, let me out,” he murmurs, pushing and squirming until he is sitting on the edge of the mattress. He pats Derek’s head in an affectionate gesture and then gets up, ready to find some coffee and, only after then, start the day.

When he pads in front of the bathroom the door is open and a shirtless Jackson is standing in front of the mirror with an electric shaver in his hand. Which is definitely strange, seeing as Jackson owns a huge-ass, top-floor open space in the same building as Boyd, Danny and Isaac and doesn’t need to sleep on Lydia’s double size bed when he has a California King waiting for him in said apartment. Not to mention the fact that it’s also closer to the headquarters,  so it makes no sense that him and Lydia would come back here, unless- “Did you blow up your house or something?” he yawns, scratching the back of his head as he leans against the door frame. He needs to piss, but having Jackson stare at his dick first thing in the morning is something that Stiles would like to avoid, if possible.

Jackson doesn’t even spare him a glance, the constant buzz of the razor as uncaringly debonair as his owner’s expression. “You wish,” he says, voice steady as he pulls a bit at the skin under his jaw, eyes on the mirror. “Boyd’s brought home a  new friend, so Isaac and Danny slept at mine.”

His words have Stiles shivering in horror, a sudden flash of the first time that Boyd had claimed to want them all to meet his new ‘best friend’ crossing his mind. Honest to God, Stiles still doesn’t understand how could be possible that, between Erica, Danny and everyone else, no one had thought necessary to warn him about the fact that, usually, Boyd tended to get overly friendly with such things as _explosives_.

Which, hey, would’ve been totally fine if it hadn’t been for the fact that, that first time, Boyd had made a grenade detonate inside the living room and _almost killed them all_. Fuck him and his Mc Garrett tendencies. That Hawaii Five-0 series had definitely had a bad influence over him.

Danny had bitched about it for weeks, mostly resenting Boyd for damaging the home theater and messing up their movie nights routine and Isaac had been extremely jumpy and clingy for days. At least until Derek, which had been driven onto the verge of some complicated nervous breakdown, had allowed Isaac to sleep with him for a few days. Werewolves, totally badass motherfuckers.

Stiles grins. “Such a pious soul that you are,” he tells Jackson, right before Derek steps behind him, his naked, broad chest a sudden and warm pressure against the expanse of Stiles’ back. He leans easily into it, tilts his head back so it’s resting against Derek’s shoulder. “Boyd is trying to blow the city up again,” he offers in greeting, smiling up at Derek’s still sleep-soft eyes.

Derek blinks slowly – once, twice – and sneaks his fingers under Stiles’ shirt, fingertips gently pressing against the sharp curve of Stiles’ hipbone, right where blood is pulsing inside his veins. “Nghm,” he says.

From his spot in front of the mirror, Jackson doesn’t seem impressed by Derek’s morning lack of eloquence.

Then, two things happen at the same time. Jackson turns off his razor and Lydia opens her bedroom’s door, coming out dressed in a cute white nightgown that says lots of things that Stiles really didn’t want to know. “I have to pee,” he announces to the world, just because.

“I need a shower,” Lydia replies, stretching her arms over her head. “You’ve got exactly one minute until I’ll be kicking the three of you out of there.”

Stiles almost breaks his shin against the bidet in his haste to get inside the bathroom. Pushy woman.

***

The rain has already stopped by the time Derek, Jackson, Lydia and Stiles step outside the building and large, brightly shining puddles are scattered here and there on the ground.

However, despite the fact that the air is slightly chillier than the previous day, the sun is starting to poke out of the few lingering dark clouds. Stiles pulls his padded jacket tighter around himself and fishes for his Jeep’s keys inside his pocket. “Did anyone check on Boyd?” he asks, because the fact that no news of a building actually crumbling down didn’t reach them isn’t a guarantee per se.

“Called  him while you were showering,” Derek mutters, hands in his trousers pockets as he steps beside Stiles. The fact that his eyes are actually shielded by a pair of sunglasses and Stiles can’t read them isn’t very reassuring, though. “Give me a lift,” he adds, stealing the keys from Stiles’ hand and strolling towards the cerulean blue Jeep parked on the other side of the road.

“Hey!” Stiles protests, an affronted look on his face because, nope, he never lets anyone drive his baby. Not even Derek. Who has claws. And fangs. Not that Stiles isn’t heavy armed and ready to play dirty but- “Animal,” he mutters when Derek, after having closed the door behind himself and started the car, shifts onto the passenger seat. What an impatient fucker.

Jackson pats his shoulder in a gesture that looks more mocking than supportive. “Well, then, see you later, Stilinski,” he snorts right before Lydia slips her hand in his, tugging him away and towards his Porsche.

From where he is still standing, Stiles watches them walk down the sidewalk, a strong, distinct impression that his life is a complete wreck irreverently curling around his neck. “Good morning to you too, Universe,” he mutters as he stomps across the road and towards his car.

The drive to the headquarters is short but nice, the roads still empty of their usual crazy traffic. Stiles turns on the radio and tunes it on something that isn’t horoscopes or daily news, quietly humming along when he finally finds a song that he likes.

From the corner of his eyes he can see that Derek’s arms are crossed on his chest and that he is shooting random glances out of the car window in his classic _this weather affects me_ pose. “This song is crap,” he informs Stiles after a few seconds of meditation.

Stiles grins. “How dare you, Adele is totally _the man_.”

 _I set fire to the rain and I threw us into the flam_ \- Derek turns off the radio, because the power that comes from this sort of small things is something inestimable, and rests his hand on the dashboard, almost as if ready to swat Stiles’ hand away from the damn annoying object that is his radio. “Your twisted perception of genders worries me.”

Ah. “ _Dude_ -” Stiles starts, ready to argue, but Derek’s hand is faster, covering his mouth just as he’s about to inhale enough air for his tirade. And then there is this fragile, slow second where Stiles swallows down the crazy impulse to lick it, just let his tongue slide out of his lips and draw a wet, long stripe across Derek’s wide palm, bones and veins barely hidden beneath thin skin- Something rumbles deep inside Derek’s chest, a low sound filling the enclosed space of the car and pushing at the air around them, expanding this bubble made of dangerous scents and electricity until it pops like a balloon too full of water.

“Shut up,” Derek orders, voice still too round at the edges for Stiles not to catch the fondness hidden in it. “Seriously, I’m _this close_ from throttling you. And it isn’t even, what, nine in the morning? That’s a record even for you.” Though he seems satisfied enough of having silenced Stiles because he finally removes his hand.

Stiles blinks, taking the last turn before the headquarters. “You forgot Nantucket,” he grins, because that was a memorable time, one that Stiles will never forget because Derek had looked _so much_ on the verge of losing control, the wolf bristling right under his skin and fighting to surface, to get a chance to play with Stiles, paw at him and bite, sink his teeth into flesh and show him who really was in control-

“Sadly for you, I will never forget Nantucket,” Derek grumbles, his eyebrows most probably bent in one of his usual _I disapprove on everything you represent_ frowns. “Doesn’t matter how much of that ninja profiler crap you pull on me, we would still be paying for the damages if it hadn’t been for-”

“Yes, yes. Okay, whatever,” Stiles waves him into silence, parking the Jeep right in front of the entry and unlocking his seatbelt. “By the way, I’ve heard that Dagobah is a nice place to take a vacation, you should try it out.”

Derek’s features tremble in what looks like desperation mixed with the strong urge to smear Stiles’ very annoying blood all over the windshield. “Dago-what?” he barks, almost on the verge of snarling because, _Stiles_.

As for him, Stiles bites back a laugh. After all, he still values his life. “Yoda’s planet? Come on, it’s Star Wars, man,” he says, palms turned up as if that explains everything.

Quite fascinatingly, a vein starts pulsating in Derek’s forehead and then, in the blink of an eye, he is unclasping his safety belt and out of Stiles’ jeep. “Your brain is seriously damaged,” he tells Stiles, posture stiff as if it’s costing him a great deal to not crumple the metal door in his hands, reducing it to a mini-sized coffin for Stiles’ sanity. “And I’m not your man!” With that, he’s off and stalking away from the vehicle.

It takes five good minutes to Stiles to stop laughing.

***

A false lead. Evidence purposely scattered here and there in plain view, too juicy to be ignored and yet too bland to be used. If only Stiles thinks about it, about the way they’ve been played, how they’ve let the killer toy with them- It makes something inside him hiss with rage, white and sharp and _so eager to destroy_ that it almost unbalances him.

“Someone looks like he needs a real drink tonight.”

Nick’s voice distracts Stiles from his thoughts, the low, multi-colored lights of the club coming back into focus together with the steadiness of the counter he is leaning against. The Octagon knows no rest, not even when someone is out there with the sole purpose of murdering innocents.

“Maybe I do,” Stiles half-laughs, a thick, bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat, tries to scroll away his thoughts. But, no matter what, Danny’s words, every single detail of what he’d told to Derek and the team that afternoon, won’t leave him alone.

Just like it’d blossomed, Nick’s playful smile fades from his lips. “Did something happen?” he asks, concern filling each pause between his words.

For a brief, wild moment Stiles is almost tempted to spill it all. After all, Nick is not only one of the bartenders, but also the owner of the club, and he probably would want to know that a girl has been murdered because she was in his property, because, of all places, she’d chosen exactly this one to relax and have fun, and had ended up with a needle breaching her skin and acid slowly devouring her insides. “Not really,” he instead says. “It just was a long day.”

Over the last months Stiles has learnt that Nick is a pretty easy-going person, someone who knows how to judge situations an relate to people, so he isn’t surprised when the other young man smiles, nonchalantly leaving whatever Stiles doesn’t want to talk about alone. “Nothing that a good drink can’t fix,” he winks, picking a glass from under the counter and filling it before passing it to Stiles. “A soft one, though, because you seem a bit too young to be drinking, kid.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles laughs, doesn’t need to thank him because this is just how they usually work. It’s been almost a year now that Stiles has started working here undercover and Nick has been a precious resource, backing him up and serving Stiles soft drinks each time one of the costumers offers to buy for the little, cute bitch they so desperately want to fuck. The fact that he also has a witty sense of humor is a nice bonus.

From the other side of the bar, someone asks for another round of whiskies. “You are welcome,” Nick grins right before abandoning Stiles and return to his work.

Which is exactly what Stiles should do too, seeing as it’s been more than one hour that he’s been sitting at the bar. He gives a lazy look around, faking boredom as he scans the place for a target, something- There it is, that sparkly thing that catches his eyes.

On the other side of the club there is a man that looks way too happy to be standing alone in a corner. It doesn’t take much to Stiles to confirm his theory when a young couple approaches him, exchanging only a few words before there is a flash of paper, money quickly passing from hand to hand as the man fishes inside his pockets. Stiles doesn’t need to be looking to know what he’s handing to the couple in change.

 _The victim was a student at the local University, no criminal record. She was a nice girl._ That’s what Danny had said that afternoon. A nice girl, pushed and pulled and sadistically brought to her breaking point for some sick bastard’s pleasure- Stiles slides off his barstool, drink and Nick and _pleasantries_ behind him and already forgotten.

It isn’t difficult to blend between the sea of bodies moving onto the dance floor, shaking his hips and tilting his head back until his blood is thumping at the same, loud rhythm of the music, until other bodies are pressing against Stiles’ and sweat starts pooling behind his neck. And then, the dealer is already scanning the crowd like a hungry eagle flying over its territory, Stiles only needs to be the defenseless bunny. Almost invisible and yet irresistible.

That’s how, only a couple minutes later, he finds himself plastered over the very same wall the dealer had been propped against, pupils so dilated that there is only a honey-dark ring circling them and breath falsely quickened.

The guy in front of him looks like a huge, money-filled Santa’s bag was just dropped right in front of his feet. “Ya wanna some, pretty?” he slurs in what he probably believes is a seducing tone, two fingers finding Stiles’ chin and lifting it to look into his eyes.

Fighting the urge to punch the slimy bastard and just be done with it, Stiles flutters his eyelashes, faking a shyness that doesn’t belong to him. “I- Yes. I need,” he stutters, nervously licking his lips.

In front of him, something inside the dealer’s eyes lights up like gasoline hit by lightning, dangerous and ready to devour everything on its path. “Yes,” he says, a false sweetness dancing underneath his words that makes Stiles’ stomach clench in disgust, “tell me. What do you need, pretty?”

Like a lost, insecure child, Stiles shifts on his feet, fingertips smoothing the front of his shirt. “I need- Please. But I don’t- I mean, I could pay you- I don’t have any money?” he offers, abandoning his shoulders against the solid surface of the wall and canting his hips forward, towards the man in front of him, so the message not so subtly hidden under his words won’t be missed. He licks his lips again, for good measure.

The predatory look in the other man’s eyes goes _feral_. “Sure thing, pretty,” he hisses, pleased beyond words. A jackass sniffing at a prey already dead. He gives Stiles an appreciative once-over, his fingertips slowly sliding from his chin down to his collarbones, until he’s grasping the collar of Stiles’ shirt between his fingers. “I’m quite sure we could come to a, hm, an agreement. Maybe put that perfect-looking mouth to good use,” he murmurs, hinting but never directly asking. He wants to make sure that, at the end, this will look like the choice has been on Stiles, he wants to know that Stiles _needs him_. And how badly.

Stiles just needs to push him a little bit more- “Please,” he moans shamelessly, eyes half-closed as he pushes himself off the wall and against the other man, thrusts slightly so the man’s evident erection is pressed against the long, muscled curve of his thigh. He doesn’t even have to be hard for this, not when he’s standing in front of this kind of man.

In fact, Stiles knows that there is no way the dealer can resist him, deny himself after Stiles has practically offered himself on a silver plate. Just- Not happening.

That’s also why a laugh threatens to escape him when the man lets go of his shirt and goes straight for his wrist, grabbing and tugging at it until Stiles is following him towards the restroom. “Gonna come all over that pretty face,” he murmurs against Stiles’ ear as he pushes him inside the door, “and then daddy’s gonna give you a priz-” Stiles’ fist colliding with his mouth cuts him mid-phrase, sending him flying to the other side of the bathroom and slumping against the filthy tiles the wall is plastered with.

Opening and closing his fingers, Stiles sighs. Damn, Derek should pay him way more than he does.

***

When Stiles and his new, handcuffed friend slip outside from the back exit it’s pouring again, thick, heavy drops enveloping the already pretty dark alley in a opaque veil and making it look even more spectral. Their van is parked a few feet away, though, Boyd’s relaxed face sticking out from the open rear door as he urges Stiles to _hurry the fuck up_ with only a slight movement of his eyebrows. Stiles has no doubt about where – or, more specifically, from _who_ – he’s learnt to do that.

Which is, ah, pretty funny because said person is just waiting for them into the van, sitting at Jackson’s spot in front of the equipment’s table and grumpily frowning at the metal wall in front of him as if he wouldn’t mind for it to either melt or disintegrate.

Yay, party night.

“Here’s something you can use to carve your wait out,” Stiles grins when Derek looks up at him. He uses a handkerchief to pull a folding knife out of his pocket and places it on the table along with a few too many doses of various drugs. “After all, it’s not like our friend here needs it anymore.”

They both shoot a look at where Boyd has just handcuffed the man to the other wall of the van. His face is a peculiar shade of puce and the only thing that’s probably stopping him from throwing a tantrum is Boyd’s _I’ll tap-dance all over your balls if you don’t shut the fuck up_ expression. Stiles totally understands him, though, because there are times when Boyd wins in the _horror movie level of scary_ department and this is exactly one of those.

There is an empty chair beside Derek and Stiles takes it, elbows resting over his thighs as he leans closer to the werewolf. “Sorry it took me a bit longer than usual,” he mutters low enough that their arrest won’t hear him.

The left corner of Derek’s mouth twitches downwards. “You stink,” he grumbles back, his fingers twitching from where his fists are resting over his legs, almost as if he wants to reach over to Stiles, show him exactly _what_ he needs to apologize for, rub his scent all over Stiles’ exposed skin and make sure it’ll stay, that no filthy criminal – _no one_ – will ever again touch him the way the man in front of them did-

The van trembles slightly as Boyd starts the engine. “I’ll take a long shower,” Stiles smiles, promises, shrugging the tension away and leaning back against the chair, shoulder familiarly brushing Derek’s. “Are you comfortable enough there, buddy?” he then asks to their still nameless dealer, seen the absolute lack of ID card in his pockets.

From where he is sitting the guy shoots him daggers. “You fucking bitch,” he spits back, tugging angrily at the steel bracelets hooked around his wrists. He doesn’t seem much concerned about the fact that he’s just been arrested, more like he wouldn’t be opposed to the opportunity of breaking every single bone in Stiles’ body.

Darkness rolls in the depth of Derek’s throat and Stiles can almost hear the wet, squelching sound of fangs making their wait out of tender flesh, can picture lively green slowly turning darker, sparks of red bleeding in it like ink dripping into water- He rests his elbow against Derek’s shoulder in a gesture that could look casual but it’s not, ponders briefly if it’s finally the case to have that talk about leashes. Only it’s not, because he doesn’t want to end up used as a rug for Derek’s office.

He sneers at the man in front of them. “Tell that to your future cellmate. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to show you a thing or two about payback.”

The silence that follows is a loud enough reply.

“Just as I thought,” Stiles mocks him. Beside him Derek seems to deflate all at once, a pleased smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

***

It’s still raining very heavily when they arrive to the headquarters’ half-empty parking lot, so Boyd drops Derek, Stiles and their arrest right in front of the entry before leaving again with a screech of tires, headed to the underground garage.

“Come on,” Derek tells Stiles, gently patting his arm as he stirs the dealer inside the building. The man responds by trying to shake Derek’s hand away from where it’s clinging to his shoulder but, if possible, that makes Derek’s grip tighten, cloth wrinkling under his fingers. “You and I are gonna have a nice chat,” he says, voice rough like sand against glass.

It makes Stiles smirk and think of the last time someone has been interrogated by Derek. Tears had been shed. And definitely not of the joyful kind. “Taffeta, sweetheart,” he mutters into Derek’s ear, because that’s a joke only he can understand.

Despite the late hour, the third floor is still teeming with people when they get there. Jackson is standing in a corner right next to the other elevator, talking to two young agents who are looking at him in a way that suggests he’s dripping gold all over them or something. Which, nope, not going there. Especially not after having seen Kanima-Jackson drip actual venom inside someone else’s mouth.

Thank luck, though, he hasn’t really the time to focus on that train of thoughts because Derek doesn’t waste time in pleasantries or greetings, pushing an open palm to the handcuffed guy’s back and urging him towards the open space. Funnily enough, the dealer doesn’t seem much prone to cooperate and tries to make things difficult for Derek, shuffling his feet against the grey carpeting. Derek only shoves him more vigorously.

Working hours are an alien concept to the Supernatural section. After all, they haven’t become an elite team in the ordinary way, especially seen as nothing else of what they do could be defined as such. So it doesn’t really surprise Stiles to find Scott still hunched over his desk, index finger absentmindedly scratching his beard as he scrolls through something on his computer; and neither does the fact that Isaac is sitting cross-legged on a red swivel chair, a pencil forgotten behind his ear as he scribbles something. That’s just the way they roll.

“Hello Mr. Hale, sir,” another agent greets Derek as he walks past them, a nervous, almost reverent smile painted over his face. He pauses then, nodding to Stiles. “Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles smiles back for both himself and Derek. “Hello,” he greets politely back. Despite the fact that he’s indeed a familiar face, he can’t really remember the agent’s name right now.

Beside him, Derek doesn’t even bother to speak a word, grunting instead a “Stay here,” at the dealer and pushing him onto Erica’s chair. After another second, the young agent ducks his head and walks meekly away.

Stiles doesn’t find in himself the energy to pity him.

“Boyd!” Derek barks, not even looking up from where he is busy frowning angrily at the drug dealer. Who is actually frowning back. Wow, seems like they are having a hell of a staring contest going on there.

Somewhere down the hallway a door slams shut, Stiles clears his throat a bit too loudly. “You need something?” he says, because evidently Derek was so focused on his task to the point of forgetting that Boyd isn’t actually here and ready to ask ‘how high’ when Derek orders him to jump.

“I need room number three,” Derek replies straightaway, the tone of someone who’s determined to not acknowledge his lapsus.

“Of course you do,” Stiles mutters. Room number three, the one with the cracked see-through mirror that Derek had actually launched a young troll against, the one Chris had forbidden him to use because _you can’t beat people into confessing, Derek_. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for the number two, seeing as Chris is actually using-”

Suddenly, Derek’s eyes are on him. “I said I need room number three, Stiles,” he says, voice lowered because they aren’t going to have this argument.

Only they are and they will. “What is wrong with you and bloodshed, hm?” Stiles counters back. “Have you actually imprinted on that room? Bonded over the seriously huge amount of creepiness-”

“Not now,” Derek tells him, fingers suddenly closing around Stiles’ forearm. _He touched you. He cancelled the smell of pack and replaced it with his own. He marked you,_ he wants to say, as if that is an excuse enough for wanting to disembowel the man, but instead he swallows it down, bends his head towards Stiles’ and lets the steady bluntness of blood rushing inside Stiles’ veins seep into his system.

“Oh, that’s great,” a voice behind them slurs derisively. They both turn to face the dealer, who is now smiling a nasty smile and looking at them in disgust. “Are you his bitch? Is that what you like, hm?” he spits right at Stiles, an unpleasant grin deforming his face.

From the other side of the room, both Isaac and Scott’s heads shoot up from their desks, the same, affronted expression altering their features. Against Stiles’ side, Derek stiffens, his spine straightening once again as a low, menacing growl arises from inside his chest. Stiles wonders how much longer it’ll take before he will start slicing throats.

Judging by the intensity of the sound Derek is making Stiles places his bet over not very long, verging on _let’s start the very short countdown_. But the poor guy seems to be too occupied by his anti-Stiles campaign to notice anything else and just keeps spitting insults at Stiles, not worrying about what is just about to hit him. Literally. “I’ll have you sucking my fucking balls-”

For the second time in the same night, the solidity of a hand landing straight on his face stops him mid-phrase, as Derek’s palm collides with flesh and tendons and bones, plastering the guy all over Erica’s desk.

And, wow, this guy has really managed to piss Derek off, because suddenly his nails are elongating, turning into claws right against the man’s very fragile, now very pale skin. “What the fuck!” he still though has the breath to squeak like a scared rat. “That’s police brutality, you can’t!”

The glasses hanging from the windows’ frames are surely very steady and, yet, Derek’s roar is so loud that it makes them shake like leaves caught in the middle of a cyclone. Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and smirks, wonders how close the guy is from pissing his pants. “Come on, Derek, man. I think that’s enough,” he says, friendly patting Derek’s back while he’s still half wolfed-out.

For a brief second Derek’s lips tremble in a silent snarl, sharp fangs shining under the artificial lights – my, what a drama queen – but then he releases his grip on the man’s shirt and face, dropping him like a sack of rotten potatoes.

The next thing that happens is the very eloquent demonstration that, no matter how hard you try, stupidity is something that just can’t be extirpated. Because both Stiles and Derek catch the exact moment he guy’s eyes drop on a cutter abandoned on Erica’s desk, a shiny, moronic chance to get a long stay ticket to the hospital.

“Oh, hell, no.”

It’s just a matter of seconds, Stiles and Derek’s eyes meeting and exchanging the same message and then Stiles is already in motion, right hand grabbing the dealer’s shoulder to make him spin. Derek’s well placed, very restrained kick sends him tumbling on the floor at their feet, a whined curse making for the most pitiful soundtrack ever.

Finally, that seems to be enough to shut him up for good.

“Someone get this moron away from me,” Derek says to the room, adjusting the collar of his shirt as if nothing. As if that _not smug I only just thought about a funny joke_ smirk could fool anyone.

Jackson, who had probably been standing behind Stiles the whole time, seems more than happy to oblige, stepping between them and yanking the guy on his feet. No one can really blame him if he puts a little too much enthusiasm into showing the drug dealer out of the open space and through the doors that lead to the service elevators.

“Just so you know,” Stiles tells Derek as soon as they are gone, “you will be the one dealing with Finstock tomorrow when he’ll march in here armed with a machete. I’m sure your head will look really pretty in the procurator’s office.”

Derek sniffs. “Shut up.”

“No, really. Just think about it,” Stiles goes on, theatrically gesturing with his hands, “he’ll probably even let you choose your personalized mount board before beheading you. It’ll be _awesome_.”

From his desk Scott coughs clumsily around a snort. Derek slaps Stiles’ nape. “You started it,” he grumbles, though there is an amused glint in his eyes telling Stiles everything he needs to know.

“What are you, five?” he grins, zipping open his jacket. “I did not.”

“You so did, man,” Scott intervenes, tapping his nose with a finger. Behind him, Isaac nods in agreement.

“Oh, sure, burn holes in my ship, Scott, why don’t you?” Stiles complains, walking to his desk because he needs a place to hide behind since his coworkers are a bunch of were-assholes. And then Stiles is thinking about fangs sprouting in very inappropriate places during the full moon and _this is so not okay_.

“I hate you all,” he announces, sulking down on his chair.

***

Sometimes Stiles finds himself thinking about television and how everything looks easier when you see it happening on screen. About forty minutes, that’s usually the amount of time it takes for a crime to be solved,  cops with uncommonly chiseled jaws gravely muttering conjectures and almost always arriving barely on time to save a life.

That’s not how life works, though. Because reality isn’t made of easily pulled triggers and haute couture raincoats just as much as it doesn’t feature slow-motion moments that give you the time to dodge a bullet. People die, that’s the reality. People die and too often no one can do a damn thing about it.

Yet Stiles keeps trying, his team, the whole FBI, each man who proudly wears a badge over their chest, they keep trying and fighting, and maybe that’s the only thing that, at the end of the day, really counts.

But sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it might just not be enough. And Stiles has just started to rediscover this feeling all over again in the past few days, because their killer seems to have vanished into the air and that’s frustrating the hell out of everyone.

No fingerprints, no DNA samples, aside from the makeup and the few victims’ belongings there isn’t any evidence coming from the crime scenes that they can use to their own advantage, and the days are passing, hours piling up one over the other. Another girl is about to be found by this maniac and they have got to stop him before it happens.

The tension is eating everyone alive, making them grow more and more frustrated with each day they spend without reaching a conclusion. Isaac has basically stopped talking and has started communicating with everyone only through multi-colored, sticky notes that he leaves scattered here and there all around the open space. Stiles has lost count of all the times he’s seen Isaac remove his glasses and slowly rub at his eyes, tired after having gone for hours through files and files full of data and statistics, trying to find a pattern, something in the killer’s behavior that could link them to a name or a place.

It doesn’t happen often, but when Isaac is in his _let’s get down to serious business_ mode, everyone in the headquarters’ building knows that Agent Lahey needs to be left alone and not bothered. Not if you don’t want him to throw a stapler at you to make you shut up. Or a table lamp. Swear to God, it has happened.

Even Erica, who’s usually the loud one of the team, always bouncing around everyone’s desk and teasing, is strangely quiet. Not Boyd’s level of quiet but still silent enough for Stiles and the others to notice it.

Thing is that FBI is not kindergarten, though, and everyone needs to learn how to deal with these kind of work-related problems if they want to survive. That’s mainly why Stiles doesn’t ask, doesn’t offer because he knows that she’ll take when she’s ready, and also because if Derek believes her capable of managing it, then Stiles trusts his judgment.

“He’s objectifying them,” Erica spits one day, closing one of the victims’ dossier with barely controlled rage. Pages they already know by memory, details that would be better forgotten but cannot.

From where he is standing in front of her desk, nails absentmindedly scraping at the edge of the wooden surface, Stiles watches the rim of her irises turn into golden circles, the only outward sign of her inner turmoil.

Unfortunately it’s not a novelty in their job, seeing men and women do unspeakable things to people they had maybe declared to love, or that they’d swore would protect and take care of. After all, cruelty is a uniquely human trait. Infanticides, mass carnage, even a few cases of cannibalism and necrophilia, in his relatively short carrier Stiles has already seen so many horrors and way too many scared, desperate eyes fixing him from the morgue’s steel table. He’d be a liar if he said that he doesn’t understand what Erica is going through.

Two years is not much of an age difference, especially seeing as Erica was born on November and Stiles in April, which means that there is less than a year and a half between them, but Erica is one of the last recruits of the team and still has a lot to learn about how many – endless, always new – horrors the human mind is able to conceive.

“Objectifying and devaluating them, yes,” he says, rubs a hand over his forehead as the metaphoric mechanisms inside his mind start turning again, rapidly scanning facts and places, taking them and rearranging them in a new order, trying to turn them over to see what they are hiding. An exhausting tri-dimensional labyrinth. “He lets them scream and draws pleasure from their pain, is always coming up with new methods so he won’t get _bored_. It’s not about the kill but more about the suffering, about how much damage he can cause to those women’s bodies and souls before they will surrender. It’s about how much time he can borrow to _toy_ with them.”

The dry, sudden noise of ceramic cracking brings Stiles’ focus back on Erica and on the broken mug in her hand. If before she had looked distressed, now _wild_ is the only adjective that comes to Stiles’ mind as he watches her struggle, fight to maintain control over her wolf, over that untamable, powerful presence inside her that demands a blood payment for all those stolen lives.

“Erica,” Stiles exhales, worried, watches himself from touching her, though, now that she’s so unbalanced, so close to the edge-

“No.” It comes out as an harsh sound, vowel slipping between sharp teeth. She closes her eyes, fingers clenching into fists as numerous, small pieces of ceramic drop to the floor like a sandy rain. “No,” she repeats, calmer, “you are right. What you told Scott was right. I can’t let this get to me, or it’ll swallow me whole and I’ll never be able to do my job. I- I only need a moment.”

From where he is standing Stiles watches her walk away, her combat boots taking her to a place where those morbid pictures and the sick reality they represent are only red petals that the wind will blow away. This is the only small mercy they can concede to themselves.

After all Stiles can’t really blame Erica. It’s been a fairly long time since they have started working together as a team and they have gone through a lot of stressing situations, risked their life so many times Stiles has almost lost count – almost, though, because each case represents a person, a child, someone who left a _mark_ –, but this particular case has impacted each one of them in a very hard way.

Even Lydia – who usually welcomes them in her office with a freshly sectioned body still open on the table and the last copy of Vogue sitting on her desk – seems much more careful, focusing on every tiny detail and leaving nothing left uncovered.

Some days it feels like living underwater, caged in a huge, colorless aquarium and no chance to reach the surface. It’s claustrophobic.

That’s why, when his free day finally comes, Stiles welcomes it like a whiff of fresh hair.

***

 _Thud. Clack_.

Thursday morning Stiles comes around to the sound of the entrance door closing and the lock sliding into place. _Lydia_ , he thinks drowsily, sliding one hand under his pillow, palm flat against the warmness of the cotton sheet.

It probably is still early, maybe around eight in the morning and, for a moment, the impulse to jump out of bed and get dressed for another day of work sneaks on Stiles like a hitch at the back of his neck, electricity slowly crackling under skin. But, before he can even manage to bring himself to open his eyes, the urge is gone, swallowed up by the awareness of today being his day off, a long string of _later_ and _oh_ and _could definitely use a few more hours of sleep_ unwinding inside his head and driving him to a much quieter place.

The duvet feels soft and smooth against his bare feet and Stiles shuffles them around a bit, adjusting into a more comfortable position as he noses at the pillow. One, two, three slow breaths, and then he’s out again, silence filling the house and yawning inside his ears.

It’s eleven in the morning when he finally rolls out of bed, his messy hair trying to defy gravity as Stiles strolls down the corridor and straight through the bathroom's door.

It’s uncommon for the apartment to be this quiet, so void of people, when usually someone of the pack is always around, shamelessly lazing on Stiles’ couch or moving around in his kitchen, pots and cutlery clacking against the marble counter in a symphony of homely sounds, an ensemble of notes that means comfort and spiritual proximity, something that has been slowly built and now is so solid that not even the sharpest of the diamond tips could nick it. It’s a routine that Stiles has grown more than a little fond of in the past years and something that he wouldn’t give up for anything in the world. Is planning not to.

Nonetheless, a little privacy is more than welcomed if it means that Stiles can take his time to ditch his pants and step straight under the warm shower spray, muscles relaxing under the water’s welcoming pressure.

“Hm, yeah,” he smiles, tipping his head back against the cold tiles, fingers quickly running across his face and scrubbing his eyes before more impellent needs push Stiles into driving them down between his legs.

Almost on the verge of torture-slow, that’s how Stiles likes to touch himself on days when the ticking of the clock is something he doesn’t have to worry about. So he follows the barely visible paths drawn by water on his skin, slick rivulets caressing the round, muscled curve of his chest, guiding him in between his pecs, where his sternum vibrates with every heartbeat, down over his toned abdomen. It’s a delicious route, one that has soon Stiles sigh with abandon, close his eyes so he can focus on the pull inside his groin, the way his balls feel heavy where they are nestled between his legs, sensitive skin eagerly contracting and pulsing when he palms them.

Frictionless pleasure hits him when – yes, _finally_ – Stiles’ fingers close around the hard, hot length of his cock, flesh twitching in a way that makes Stiles’ lips part and a chest-deep moan slip right out of them, bouncing off the tiles and mixing with the thick, cloudy steam filling the room. Automatically, following an often-practiced routine, he tightens the grip of his right hand on his dick, lets it slide from base to tip in slow, steady pumps, fingertips skidding over the silky slipperiness of the head, gently circling the crown before starting it all over again.

Around Stiles the rushing sound of water hitting the ceramic shower tray becomes nothing but white noise, something secondary that gets easily overwhelmed by the heavy breaths escaping his lips. “Fuck,” he mouths, hips canting by their own volition, following an instinct so primeval Stiles can feel it flowing inside his veins, powerful and demanding, growing with every thrust of Stiles’ dick between the comforting softness of his fisted fingers.

When he comes, spurts of semen drawing a messy, thick parabola in the air before colliding with the water, it’s almost unexpected, the tension abruptly spiraling out of him and leaving Stiles panting and wide-eyed, the sudden need to drop on his knees and just _feel_ so strong it takes quite a lot of willpower to ignore it.

Drops of water are heaving his eyelashes and he blinks, slowly, lets them slide over his cheekbones and down to his bare neck. Another sigh, a liberating one, and the world comes into focus again, the steamy glass wall of the shower a solid, soundproof barrier between Stiles and his reality, something that buys him a few more minutes of quietude as he finishes showering, soapy bubbles swirling down the drain in a rainbow waltz.

The air feels slightly chilly against his damp skin when Stiles steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed only in a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a white shirt – after all, _screw the work dress code_ is a wonderful philosophy –, but he doesn’t bother to turn on the heat, makes instead a beeline straight to the kitchen because caffeine and food are two things that need to happen really, really soon.

There is a sticky note stuck against the fridge’s door with what looks like a sketchy, sleeping cat drawn on it. Stiles chuckles at the sight, the image of a smirking Lydia sitting at their kitchen table and doodling an animal-like version of him quickly flashing in his mind before getting swallowed by the bright light coming from inside the fridge. It almost feels like a _reaching the Nirvana_ moment. Or a _stepping through the Stargate_ moment. Kind of the same.

Doesn’t really matter, though, because inside the fridge there are three perfect, delicious-looking turkey sandwiches waiting for him and his mouth waters instantly, any other thought suddenly erased by the firm conviction that Lydia is a goddess and Stiles doesn’t deserve to have her in his life. Only he totally does, because she’s also a pushy, mischievous thing, always fluttering her eyelashes and using food to bribe Stiles into doing things.

Stiles eyes the sandwiches suspiciously. “To eat or not to eat: that is the question,” he ponders, leaning against the marble counter at his side. Most probably, if Lydia is leaving him food, something fishy is going on. Unless it’s poisoned. Which could totally be an option, seeing as Lydia is always complaining about Stiles getting the biggest bedroom in the flat.

But then, since his body has no whatsoever sense of self preservation, his stomach grumbles its very brave, very eager assent. “Machiavellian woman,” Stiles mutters, grabbing the plate from the shelf. She needs to stop pairing up hints to conspiracies and food. It’s disturbing.

***

It’s four in the afternoon when the doorbell rings and Stiles has just started the washing machine, blue and brown plaid sheets wetly twirling behind the glass of the door as he hums between himself. Quickly, he puts Jackson’s laundry soap back inside Lydia’s side of the sink cabinet, making a point of removing the name tag that’s attached to the bottle just to piss him off – soapy  promiscuity, that’s a thing that Stiles would’ve never seen coming and yet intends to fully enjoy – and then walks to the front door, swinging it open in one fluid motion.

Scott’s smiley face greets him, sandwiched between two huge bags of Cheetos. “I’m picking up Allison at seven pm,” he announces when Stiles steps aside to let him in, a distinct _fuck yeah, today is made of rainbows and marshmallows_ inflection in his voice.

Stiles could swear there are little, sparkly things dancing in the air all around Scott’s head, things that make Stiles’ hands twitch with the insane urge to swat them away and club some emotional maturity into his friend. The only thing that stops him from actually doing it is the fact that no one in his right mind would hit Scott, not when he looks like a lovely, big-eyed puppy instead of the murdering machine that he really is. Damn.

“Did you lose your keys again or what?” he instead asks, closing the door with an almost inaudible click and following Scott to the couch. It’s a legit question, seeing as each member of the pack has an identical set of keys that grants them access to every apartment at any time, the fact that Lydia and Stiles’ is everyone’s favorite place to sneak into being, of course, a complete coincidence.

From where he is now laying, half-sprawled across the sinfully soft hazelnut leather couch, Scott blinks at him. “No,” he says, slightly frowning in a way that could both mean that he doesn’t understand why Stiles is asking him or, either, that he can’t really remember when it was the last time he saw them. Both options aren’t much reassuring. “God,” he sighs, toeing off his shoes just as Stiles plops down the other end of the couch, “I feel like sleeping one month straight.”

From outside the large windows afternoon sunlight is gently filtering through the curtains. Stiles watches as Scott closes his eyes, basking in the quietness and comfort of an amicable silence, doesn’t miss the way the skin around his friend’s eyes looks even thinner than usual, a faint, bluish shadow lingering right under the surface, silent yet undeniable mark of the fact that their job is not even nearly concluded. “Bad night?” he asks, doesn’t complain when Scott’s left foot worms its way under his thighs.

“More like bad everything but, yeah,” he stretches his arms over his head, shoulder blades popping with a sound that, for a human, would’ve surely meant broken bones, “that describes it pretty well too.”

“Anything new?” Things have been way too quiet lately, frighteningly so, and Stiles doesn’t like it even one bit.

Scott opens his eyes to shoot him a serious look. “Nothing worthy,” he exhales, stretching an arm towards the coffee table to grab a pack of Cheetos. “But I heard from Erica that Richardson asked Danny out.”

Uhm. “I don’t see how that’s pertinent to the case,” Stiles deadpans, leaning forward just that little bit necessary to snatch away the snacks from Scott’s hands. “Wait. Is he one of Chris’ new kids?” he asks anyway, because if there is something that Scott and him do well – aside from catching crazy, supernatural criminals, of course – that is gossiping like a couple of lovely, biscuits-baking grannies. Minus the cookies, though, because no human being in his right mind would ever let Scott near an oven. Not even if the world’s destiny depended on it. At least the Apocalypse would be a quick death.

Scott nods. “Yup, that’s him. He’s Canadian. Allison says that he comes from one of the oldest families of hunters of the state.”

“Canadian,” Stiles repeats, ignoring the rest of the information Scott has just given him and popping a handful of puffs in his mouth. “Did he offer to take Danny to a French restaurant? Because, if he did, someone better have filmed it all for posterity.”

“Oh, shut up,” Scott grins, nudging Stiles’ hip with his foot because he’s a lazy bastard. “Actually, the guy is okay. He’s even asked for Jackson’s permission before going to Danny.”

“I’d be surprised if Jackson didn’t threaten to cut off his balls at least twice. Possibly while listing all the reasons that make breaking Danny’s heart a terrible, terrible idea.” Which is a method Stiles absolutely approves of, considering the fact that Danny, _a pack member_ , is involved. After all, they take care of their own. Fiercely.

Chuckling, Scott finally sits up. “Figging might have been involved in the talk,” he says, a perfectly naughty sparkle fluttering in his irises as his left hand dives right into the bag in Stiles’ lap.

Absentmindedly, Stiles licks cheese powder off his lips, the quite disturbing image of Jackson brandishing a dildo-shaped chunk of ginger almost making him choke on his own spit. “Oh, perfect. At least now Danny knows who he’ll have to thank when the kid won’t be able to get it up.”

At that, Scott actually shrieks, red creeping up the sides of his neck. “Holy shit, just- Don’t,” he laughs, waving his hands in the air in a cute, totally useless attempt to push Stiles’ words away.

“Dude,” Stiles grins, “Sorry to be the one who breaks it to you but- Danny and virginity haven’t been friends for a long, long time by now. Same thing goes for your mom, just in case you were wondering.”

The next face Scott makes is too hilarious for words, jaw freezing mid-munch and then dropping open as his eyebrows shoot so high they almost become one thing with his hairline. “Take it back!” he cries, hands going up to cover his ears as he starts what Stiles amicably likes to call the _denial dance_. Which, really, only consists into Scott rocking back and forth and uselessly praying for whatever is bothering him to go away. Sometimes he even embraces himself as he makes these whimpering, suffering noises that resemble a crying fawn. Stiles finds it hilarious. Derek usually just scowls disapprovingly at them both because _how did I even end up working with such idiots?_

“Can’t,” Stiles says, patting Scott’s shoulder in what should be a comforting gesture but instead only serves to make him whine even louder. “You know I’d never lie to you, buddy.”

Scott shoots him a suffering look. “I hate you,” he announces. And then proceeds to snatch back the bag of Cheetos from Stiles’ hands, because food is only second to _intensive puppy piling_ in a werewolf’s list of the best coping mechanisms.

“No, you don’t,” Stiles shoots back immediately, a certainty in his tone that should maybe surprise him but that, instead, only makes the lines around his mouth readjust into a smile.

“No, I don’t,” Scott agrees, sunlight hitting the side of his face and making him look like one of those chiaroscuro Isaac so often likes to draw. “Though I’m gonna kick your ass at Mario Kart anyway.”

Oh, now, a challenge, how cute. Stiles sniffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

Shortly, that’s how they end up spending the rest of the afternoon sitting cross-legged on the couch, the large plasma TV screen casting colored shadows all over the room as the day slips away one minute at time. It’s a nice change from their daily routine, one that both Scott and Stiles make sure to fully enjoy seeing as the shit might hit the fan any second and they would get thrown right in the middle of the eye of the storm once again.

There are times, though, in which Stiles feels torn, split open into two people with the same face but different desires, finds himself both fearing and yearning the moment their killer will choose to strike again, the moment when another body will be found and this perverse carousel will start to spin again. Might be because immobility upsets him more than anything else, or maybe because he’s so addicted to adrenaline rushing in his veins that now he can’t do without. He knows this, knows how dangerous it could be to him, to the team, but Chris, _Derek_ , they trust Stiles to keep those sensations at bay, they trust him to get his emotions under control and do his job right.

Trust. Sometimes Stiles mouths the word just to feel how it tastes on his tongue, the way the ‘t’ hits the roof of his mouth like the crack of a whip, dry and quick, only to be suddenly softened by the final ‘st’. But it’s the ‘u’ what, every time, really gets Stiles, its chest-deep sound, the vibration it sparks inside him, how the time seems to imperceptibly slow down around it, almost reverently. It’s a beautiful sound, one that Stiles has made sure to always remember, even in the darkest of times, because, at the end of the day, knowing that you’re not alone is what really makes a difference.

“See you tomorrow,” Scott waves him goodbye from the top of the staircase at six pm.

From where he’s leaning against the door frame, Stiles waves back. “Yeah,” he nods right before slipping his phone out of his pocket. Six in the afternoon seems a perfect time to text Danny, especially when Stiles needs to ask him the name of that fantastic Chinese place they went to last time. He’s tired of staying home and dinner sounds like a good excuse to get some fresh air.

Danny texts him back just as Stiles is putting on his red pair of Converse, wallet and phone lying together on the bed covers, next to him.

_Golden Palace. Jackson says you suck and that he hates you._

Grabbing his jacket from the coat hanger at the entrance Stiles closes the apartment’s door behind his back. “Of course he does,” he smirks at his phone. Jackson totally loves that restaurant, and Stiles is gonna text him pictures of his dinner just because he’s evil like that.

He turns on the radio as he drives, sings quietly along even if he doesn’t know all the words. The sky is pretty dark for the early hour and if Stiles had werewolf senses he’d be probably able to smell the approaching temporal from the heavy, humid air that’s slipping inside the Jeep from the slightly open windows. Instead, he settles for eyeing the sky with a suspicious glare and, once he stops at a traffic light, grabs his phone to text Derek.

_Picking up some Chinese. wanna join me?_

It doesn’t take much before Stiles’ phone is vibrating with Derek’s reply.

_Busy with Chris atm. See you at yours in one hour?_

“But I’m hungry now,” Stiles whines uselessly at his phone, just because he can. Though his complain lacks of emotion, seeing as he isn’t a total asshole and knows perfectly the importance of the case they are working on.

As he drives Stiles can’t help but wonder what Derek and Chris are working on, if they’ve found something new from the last time he was at headquarters, which has been less than twenty four hours before, even if he knows that Scott would’ve told him if something important had come up. It’s a sort of automatic mechanism, the way his mind often leads him to places where information is the only way to fill the holes, paint numbers and names on the blank walls a quite effective palliative. To what, Stiles still has to figure it out.

 _Don’t forget the spring rolls._ Derek texts him again less than a minute later. Stiles sniffs, smirking because fuck him if Derek isn’t high maintenance.

 _Aye aye, captain_ , he quickly texts back, doesn’t even bother to pretend to be a good citizen, darting his eyes from the screen to the road and back. A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth as the image of Derek’s eyebrows doing their _oh, no, you didn’t_ complicated dance forms in his mind, Stiles is ninety percent sure that the Alpha’s lips are curled in an affronted pout right now.

Just a few minutes later, he parks his Jeep about a block away from the restaurant. It’s a nice night, a short walk won’t surely kill him.

_***_

Turns out that Stiles is actually able to jinx himself, seeing as his short, relaxing stroll to the damn restaurant almost _does_ kill him.

Curry chicken, fried rice, three portions of spring rolls, Stiles gets a double amount of everything because usually Derek eats the same amount of food of a freaking whale, his plankton being any sort of meat or edible thing around. But the festive atmosphere of the restaurant, with all the gold and red decorations, relaxes him to the point where Stiles doesn’t mind spending an insane amount of money on his dinner as long as he gets to have a decent meal. Also, he’s pretty sure that Derek is currently living solely on tea – which is a secret code for Stiles’ coffee – and those delicious muffins that Boyd brings in every morning. Feeding him some real food won’t definitely hurt.

By the time the food containers are in his hands Stiles’ mood has improved so much that he even growls at the quite scary Fu Dog sitting right over the cash counter, earning a delighted giggle from the young owner’s daughter. “Zài Jiàn. Goodbye, miss,” he winks at the little girl as he exits the restaurant, the sound of her fresh, adorably cute voice following him as he steps outside, nicely fresh air washing over his face.

The parking lot behind the restaurant is almost desert, exception made for a couple of old cars and a bicycle tied to a light pole, and Stiles crosses it quickly, the steam rising from the bag in his hand curling around his fingers and warming them. However, after a few steps, a strange, tingling sense of alertness sets at the back of his mind, a faint yet undeniable presence that he finds himself unable to ignore.

Everything seems to be pretty quiet around him, though, the well lit expanse of concrete clearly empty aside from the few vehicles parked in it. Probably a full night of sleep didn’t help him much, after all, if he’s sensing things that aren’t here.

A few cars drive past him as Stiles walks down the street where his car is parked and he hopes between himself that Derek will bring a good movie this time, an excellent one, at least to make amend for the fact that they ended up watching Twilight last time. “I thought it was an horror movie!” Derek had tried to defend himself. Stiles had thrown a bowlful of popcorn to his face.

The bad thing is that Stiles is still lost deep in his thoughts when he notices it, an extraneous, rhythmic sound that shouldn’t be there but instead is right behind him, getting closer and closer at an alarming pace. It might be already too late but his first instinct is to spin on himself, which reveals to be an effective move, as his attacker finally reaches him and the blade that had been aimed to the middle of Stiles’ back only grazes his forearm.

The food that Stiles was carrying goes flying everywhere, containers opening at the impact with the concrete of the sidewalk and filling the air with a mouth-watering smell. The whole thing is so stupidly inappropriate to the situation that Stiles would almost laugh if he wasn’t too occupied with, like, keeping an eye on a potential murder weapon whose owner seems to be overly eager to sink into Stiles’ body. And not in a sexy, _blood play is a perfectly normal kink_ way.

Bummer.

There is the cap of a hoodie covering the man’s face and the fact that his back is actually turned in the street light’s direction doesn’t work to Stiles’ favor, preventing him from seeing the guy’s face. Doesn’t matter, though, because Stiles’ very expensive dinner is laying all over the ground and he’s pissed now, can’t wait for the moment the man – a mugger? Stiles isn’t really sure this is a robbery. It surely doesn’t feel like one – will make his next move. And when he does, trying to lunge at Stiles a second time, Stiles is ready, knows exactly what to do.

So he lowers himself on his knees, raising his uninjured forearm to meet the other man’s and push his armed hand away as his other fist flies in the air, punching the assaulter right in his abdomen. The reaction he gets confirms to Stiles that the guy in front of him isn’t inexperienced in this kind of things. In fact, he almost doesn’t even flinch, reacting suddenly and enclosing Stiles’ wrist in a hard grip, tugging until he’s making him spin and Stiles’ face ends up pressed against the cold, filthy brick wall of the nearest building. Talk about karma.

“Bitch,” Stiles spits, struggling in the attempt to elbow the man behind him and get free. Unfortunately, that is the last thing he manages to say before the knife’s blade is cutting into his flank with painful clarity, sharp metal easily sinking into tender flesh and freezing Stiles’ breath in his throat, making him gasp for a long, interminable second.

A twist, a pull, Stiles’ blood sickly spurting outside the wound and, silently as he came, the guy is gone, vanished into the night and Stiles is left there, nails scraping the surface of the wall he’s now leaning against and knees suddenly weak, sparks of fire-hot pain radiating from his side.

Around, the night is quiet, so quiet that Stiles finds it almost unbearable as he hisses, presses a hand against the open gash on his side and closes his eyes, trying to focus. Staying out here is an option that isn’t happening, he’s too exposed, so the first thing to do is fish his Jeep’s keys out of his pocket and then stagger over to it as he figures what to do next.

Once inside the Jeep Stiles turns on the heat, then slides his jacket off his shoulder and holds it against the wound. Luckily the knife doesn’t seem to have touched any vital part, seeing as, aside from the strong pain, he only feels a bit lightheaded from the loss of blood. He needs to get home.

He doesn’t even bother using his phone, couldn’t even if he wanted, seeing as even driving is a huge effort right now, the pressing need of closing his eyes and just whimper in pain caressing Stiles’ neck, curling around it like the warmest of the scarves. So tempting.

The drive to his building feels hours long but, at last, Stiles manages to get there, the elevator mirror a nice, fresh presence against his too warm cheek when he crashes against it. The sudden thought that his blood will be a hell of a job to wipe away almost makes him giggle, cough, at the moment he isn’t sure there is an actual difference between the two things.

Damn, even standing up straight seems impossible right now.

After an interminable amount of time, when Stiles’ knees are just about to give in and bend under the weight of his too heavy, _so heavy_ body, the elevator finally comes to a halt. There is a strange, screeching noise coming from outside and Stiles blinks, tries to focus on it despite the numbness clouding his thoughts, the pungent, ferrous smell of the blood seeping through his clothes and making him want to puke.

When the doors finally open the artificial light coming from the hallway hits Stiles’ face in a way that screams _wrong_ and _distorted_ , blurriness edging his vision, but he barely has the time to notice it before warm, _so gentle_ fingers are closing around his shoulders, the solidity of a firm chest catching him as he staggers forward. “Christ,” Derek mutters against Stiles’ ear, a deep, frightening inflection in his voice that makes Stiles think about seaquakes and buildings crumbling down. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Stiles.”

Behind him Stiles can see Lydia’s small, gentle figure, her red hair tied in what looks like a messy bun. She’s standing right outside the elevator, eyes big like the moon and lips parted, the perfect picture of someone who’s actually too worried to even speak. “Sorry about the spring rolls,” Stiles tells her, because that seems a good thing to say. Apologizing is good, keeps him entertained and distracted from the _scene of massacre_ kind of problem going on all over his side.

Derek doesn’t seem to agree, though, because he actually _snarls_ at Stiles – which, hey, rude. Injured man down here, thanks –. “Shut up,” he rumbles, nosing at the side of Stiles’ neck, his hands roaming all over Stiles’ back, pushing the fabric of his shirt up to get to the bare skin underneath.

“Derek,” Lydia’s voice comes from behind them, hurried, almost trembling, everything Stiles would never want her to sound like.

But Derek doesn’t stop what he is doing, ignores her as his palms move, setting against the flatness of Stiles’ stomach. “Who,” he asks, shifting just that little bit necessary for his eyes to meet Stiles’.

Thunder, a river about to destroy a dike, pure power is burning in Derek’s pupils when Stiles’ gaze lands on them. “Don’t know,” he murmurs. And then, because Derek’s Alpha magic is actually working and making Stiles’ pain slowly recede, he pushes at Derek’s chest in the attempt of putting some space between them. “But I’m feeling better now-” is the last thing he manages to say before collapsing for good.

Wow, this day just keeps getting better.

***

Claw marks running across the metal doors of the elevator, Lydia’s small hand holding a phone and tapping something on it, Derek’s intense, rough voice filling the air. The next minutes pass in a blur of colors and sounds for Stiles, his eyelids suddenly so heavy it feels like a tremendous effort to keep them open.

Nonetheless, he tries with all his strength to not pass out again as Derek carries him – bridal style. Thank heaven neither Jackson or Erica are around to witness such epic moment – down the stairs and to his car. He also tries to pretend that he doesn’t feel guilty about the distressed look in Derek’s eyes as the Alpha deposits him over the leather seat of his Camaro. Useless to say that he fails miserably.

The drive to the hospital is a quick, silent one. Stiles feels tired and quite debilitated, both from the pain and the loss of blood, and the only thing he wants more than understanding why the heck he’s just been skewered like a fucking piece of meat is to sleep until the end of days. Or a whole lot of painkillers, either. Beside him, Derek is literally angry-driving, fingers firmly tightened around the wheel and jaw set, his eyebrows twitching as if he’s keeping himself from saying something that Stiles really, really wouldn’t like.

Strangely, Stiles appreciates the effort.

Once they are inside the hospital – and Stiles has been handed to the doctors like a freaking three-years old by none other than _his boss_ – it doesn’t take much before they are told that what Stiles needs is just a blood transfusion and a few stitches. Simple as that.

No one asks questions about how Stiles got hurt, though, which probably means that Derek has used his patented _FBI here, clear the way_ routine to deal with the staff. Uhm, nope, erase that, because Derek _definitely_ used it, seeing as the nurse who is stitching Stiles up is actually shooting him nasty, murderous glances.

From where he is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and light-gray shirt artistically soaked with blood, Derek just blinks stoically back at them.

Stiles sighs, because somewhere someone is surely laughing at the joke his life has become. “The only way to make him go away is to shoot him,” he slurs at the nurse, a faint, tired smile curving his lips. “Maybe. Still not sure that would work.”

Pushing the needle for the umpteenth time into Stiles’ skin, the nurse doesn’t reply, lets Stiles’ words float around them like small, timid white butterflies. And, probably, the truth hidden behind them should scare Stiles, should make a siren go off in his head, but instead the only thing he feels is calm, a distinct sense of safety enveloping him as Derek tells him to shut up.

It’s almost dawn when they get back to Stiles’ apartment and Lydia is nowhere to be seen. She has called Derek something like thirteen times during the past few hours, along with Scott, Isaac, Erica and everyone else, even Chris. Stiles is pretty sure he’s never seen Derek be so happy about his battery running low like tonight. And that also includes that one time in Nevada when they’d had to leave Erica at home and, as revenge, she’d decided that three in the morning was a perfectly okay time to pour her lady-feelings all over Derek.

Slowly, being careful of every step he takes, Stiles finally manages to get to his bedroom, Derek’s body a warm presence against him as he helps Stiles out of his clothes, gentle fingers barely grazing skin as he easily slides Stiles’ jeans off his slender hips, keeps him standing when Stiles staggers a little, painkillers making him dizzy just as much as the pain had before.

The softness of the clean cotton sheets against his skin is something that Stiles welcomes with a groan of pleasure. “I should call my dad,” he mutters just as Derek slides behind him under the covers, his naked chest so warm it makes Stiles shiver. He closes his eyes.

Carefully, as if handling something fragile, Derek adjusts them both so he ends up caging Stiles’ body with his arms and legs, bare skin brushing against every spot he can reach. “Already took care of that,” he grumbles, one big palm resting against the side of Stiles’ left thigh, obviously trying to avoid touching Stiles’ bandaged side.

It’s both hypnotizing and comforting, the steady rhythm of Derek’s strong chest rising and falling, wet puffs of breath landing at the base of Stiles’ neck and caressing skin, marking him in a way so subtle and yet so _definitive_.

Slowly, blinking and yawning and finally surrendering, Stiles falls asleep to warmness and a quiet, familiar heartbeat.

***

Thing is that, when the doctor had said only a few stitches and a transfusion, Stiles had believed her, had trusted her to not lie to him. No one said nothing about taking two weeks off work, though.

Still, that’s exactly what Derek has literally coerced him into doing, grounding Stiles’ ass as if he is a sixteen years old caught sneaking out of his window at inappropriate hours. Which he totally has been, by the way, but- So not the point.

Fact is that Derek is just as perfectly reasonable as a marble statue, not budging even a bit when Stiles complains about getting ordered to stay home and get some serious rest. “You can’t keep me here if you are elsewhere,” Stiles tells him, pouting because, sadly, he already knows who’s going to win this argument.

Derek’s eyebrows twitch in an alarming way. “Try me,” he rumbles, pouring some water in a glass for Stiles to drink. “Handcuffs, leather straps, your freaking skinny ties- I actually have a lot of options to choose between.”

At that, Stiles actually sputters. “Leather straps,” he repeats, as if he needs a moment for that to sink in. Because he totally does. What the heck does Derek even do with leather straps? Unless he- oh. “I thought Erica and Boyd didn’t need them anymore.”

Derek smirks his fox-clever smirk. “Yeah, _they_ don’t.”

Stiles swallows. And he’s also probably flushing a little because, fucking hell. “Fine,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and sulking against the pillows behind him. “Have it your way. But. I get to text slash bother you whenever I want and you’ll keep me updated about the case. Unless you want me to bleed all over my Jeep, _again_ , as I drive to headquarters to kick your pretty werewolf ass, that is.”

“I thought it was little,” Derek says as he slides his jacket off his shoulders, joining Stiles on the bed.

Stiles kicks him in the ribs. “What.” It isn’t a question because Derek’s words don’t even make sense.

From where he is laying belly-down, Stiles’ feet trapped between the mattress and his abdomen, Derek blinks at him. “Shouldn’t that be _little_ werewolf ass?” he asks, a hint of a dirty smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Since two can play this game, Stiles pretends to think about it, actually stretches his neck to sneak a peek at Derek’s definitely muscled, jeans-covered rear. Well. “Doesn’t really seem little to me,” he grins, wiggling his toes just because he’s an annoying, injured (and therefore untouchable) little shit.

Derek only shuffles that little bit necessary to slide a hand under himself and lightly poke the arch of Stiles’ foot. “So you think it’s pretty,” he mutters from where his face is now buried in the duvet. As if Stiles can’t tell that he’s grinning like a loony.

“No, I think it’s hideous, just didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Stiles mutters back, picking at a feather pocking out from a seam of the comforter. The vibration of Derek’s amused hum makes him grin even if his side still hurts like a bitch.

So, at the end, Stiles stays put like he’s been told, shuttling back and forth from the bed to the couch and back and actually catching up with all the series he’d sometime started watching but never had time to finish. Of course, that doesn’t mean that he likes the situation, but Derek has made clear that he won’t allow Stiles either in the office or on any crime scene until he’s fully recovered and Chris has backed him up, of course, so Stiles really hasn’t much of a choice.

At least, the constant coming and going of people in his apartment keeps him entertained. The sheriff has actually slept on the couch for three nights in a row before Stiles managed to persuade him that- “Dad, I’m _fine_. Will you go home and get some real sleep if I promise to wear an armor from now on?”

At that, John had actually awkwardly hugged him, clumsily trying not to hurt Stiles as he’d clung to him and swallowed back tears. To be honest, Stiles is really grateful that his dad hadn’t said something on the line of _don’t ever do something like that to me again_ , because that is a promise that he knows he couldn’t keep. Not because he’s planning to get assaulted again in the near future – thanks but he’s already had his share of that – but because with a job like his it’s so unbelievably easy to get hurt. John Stilinski had been a cop, once, but being a FBI agent is so much more in so many ways that Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever able to explain.

Aside from his dad, though, everyone is still literally camping in Stiles’ living room. And in his bedroom. And in Lydia’s too. Hell, of course the pack has chosen to move in when Stiles needs rest like he needs to breathe, he’s always known that they secretly wanted him dead.

Actually, Stiles is also pretty sure that they’ve rearranged their shifts so at least one of them is always around. Talk about freaky werewolf control issues.

However, it’s comforting to know that there are people ready to do literally anything for him. Since his mom died, Stiles has always felt like something else, beside the love, beside her familiar scent, had gone missing with her. Not that his dad hasn’t been a good enough parent, oh, no, John probably has been even _more_ , always trying to compensate for an emptiness that was impossible to fill. But the pack, in its own dysfunctional way, has slowly healed the gaping hole inside Stiles’ chest, helped to create a scar where a nasty gash had once been. Some days, it still feels like it isn’t true, but when it happens they are always there to remind Stiles that pack is family, that they _are_ family.

So it isn’t like he wasn’t expecting this weird sort of pilgrimage to start, but his eyes still bulge a bit when Erica brings him cookies, the sudden impulse of handing them to Lydia to have them analyzed hitting Stiles with an alarming clearness. _They are good, though_ , he ends up pondering between himself as he lies on his bed, curled against Isaac’s warm, soft body.

They have been spending most of the day in Stiles’ bedroom, pillows stacked behind them harem-style and The Lord Of The Rings trilogy playing on the TV.

Isaac is the perfect companion to watch a movie like this with, seeing as he almost doesn’t even breathe because of how focused he is on the story, so Stiles is the lucky bastard who gets to eat all the cookies and steal Isaac’s unnatural – but still handy – body heat. And maybe even nap a bit, since he’s seen the damn thing so many times he almost could recite it by memory. Really, Legolas and Aragorn’s epic bromance is the only thing that’s keeping him awake.

The battle of Helm’s Deep is just about to begin when Jackson not-so-sneakily slips trough Stiles’ half-open bedroom door. Both Isaac and Stiles ignore him in favor of staring at the multitude of stupidly attractive elves on the screen, trying to match them with the ugly, cannibalistic thing that they have managed to kill not even half a year before and failing miserably.

Silently Jackson climbs into bed next to them, snatching a cookie from the plate in Stiles’ hand as he claims the v-shaped spot between Isaac’s legs. “Go Gimli,” he mutters. Isaac knees his shoulder to make him shut up.

By late evening, Stiles’ bed has suddenly turned into some kind of nest where everyone – Allison, Boyd, even Lydia, who is actually sitting on Erica’s lap – somehow gets a spot around Stiles and ends up touching him in some way or another. Stiles can’t understand  (and doesn’t even want to know) how they even managed that, but he fervently hopes that his bed won’t break or something. Because if that happens, he’s gonna kick asses, stitches pulling at his still sore side or not.

Stiles is just in the middle of his _I’m ogling you, behave_ phase when Scott slightly raises his head from Allison’s belly, only to lower it again a second later when Derek opens the door. “About time,” Erica tells him from where she’s laying, legs across Boyd’s chest and head pillowed on Isaac’s thigh. It’s like Tetris, only with werewolves.

For a moment Derek doesn’t seem to be too happy about the current situation, eyes roaming all over the shapeless tangle of limbs and taking in the way they’ve managed to put Stiles in the middle of this weird _keep your clothes on_ kind of emotional orgy, and he looks this close to kicking them all out and lock the door. But then Isaac yawns, snuggling even closer to Scott, and a weird sort of tension seems to drip away from Derek’s shoulders, as he finally slides off his jacket and drops it on the desk chair. “Move,” he tells Boyd, not even looking at him as he’s too occupied frowning at where Erica’s hand is lazily petting Stiles’ thigh.

There are some grunts and a few complains but, at last, they manage to shift in a comfortable enough position so that Derek is laying sandwiched between Boyd’s long body and Stiles’, Derek’s massive arm pillowing Stiles’ head as one of Erica’s feet sneaks under Derek’s calves. “Puppies,” Derek grumbles against the shell of Stiles’ ear, voice calm and relaxed despite his grumpy demeanor.

Stiles noses at his jaw, Derek’s stubble pleasantly rough against his skin. “Finders, keepers,” he murmurs back, eyelids suddenly heavy as the painkillers finally start to kick in.

After all, Derek’s the one who chose each one of them and, despite how much he usually complains about their general lack of common sense – among many other things –, Stiles knows that he’d never, under any circumstance, seriously think about getting rid of them. And that’s not only because Derek hasn’t any family left except them, not because he would be nothing more than a lonely, _raw_ man, but because he knows that he’s needed just as much as he needs, that this thing they have going on between them all works both way. A give and take that’s so ordinary and yet so special in its simplicity.

Slowly, lulled by the sound of the others’ quiet breathing and by the slow, almost imperceptible touch of Derek’s fingers against the back of his head, Stiles falls finally asleep.

When he wakes up again the sky outside the window is ink-dark and Scott and Allison are gone from the bed. Erica is quietly snoring, snuggled against Stiles’ back. In the dim light, Stiles can see that Derek’s eyes are open, liquid darkness quietly shining where his pupils are supposed to be. He’s watching Stiles.

“Scott?” It’s a whispered question, one that slips out of Stiles’ mouth together with a tired yawn. Someone must have covered him with a blanket while he was sleeping because there is a pleasant, welcomed warmness enveloping him, Erica and Derek’s supernatural body heat seeping through the fabric and radiating in Stiles’ body.

Derek’s hand slides under the covers up to the pillow, finding Stiles’. “Working on a trail,” he murmurs quietly, taking his time to caress Stiles’ palm, fingertips brushing against sensitive skin, before interlacing their fingers together. “Chris has got his back, don’t worry.”

Which is the most honest and reassuring thing Derek could tell him, given the fact that no supernatural creature or crazy murderer would try and attack Chris when he’s pissed off. And being constantly angry is kind of Chris’ default mood, lately.

There is no need for Stiles to ask further questions, because the dark shadows circling Derek’s eyes already told him everything he needs to know. It’s been a while since Stiles has seen him like that, tired and always on the edge, frantically looking for an answer that won’t come and yet never stopping, never giving up, like a bull in the arena that will fight until the very end. So he says nothing, just squeezes Derek’s hand, diving his nose against Derek’s collarbone, where the skin is thin and surprisingly smooth, his scent strong and familiar, and closes his eyes.

 _Mine_ , it’s a quick, hazy thought, and then he’s asleep again.

***

It takes exactly fifteen days and a great amount of Stiles’ talkativeness before Chris and Derek let him go back to his job. Pale-pink, new skin has finally replaced the ugly cut on Stiles’ side and, if he’s careful enough, it probably won’t even scar. Much. Or at least that’s what Lydia has told him this morning, when she’s changed his bandage.

Fact is that carefulness is the last thing on Stiles’ mind right now, his eagerness to go back to his work shadowing everything else. Their killer hasn’t given any sign of life since last time, and that was way before the two weeks Stiles has spent home. Which actually terrifies him, makes him worry even more about what they’ll find the next time he’ll strike.

When the call he so was dreading finally arrives it’s morning and Stiles is just coming out of Starbucks, a paper bag full of cinnamon rolls in one hand and a cup of steaming coffee in the other. A pale sun is shining behind thin, frayed clouds and Stiles blinks up at them as Erica quickly gives him the address of the crime scene, a stressed note in her voice.

Once she hangs up Stiles drops his untouched coffee in a trash next to the shop’s entry and heads straight to his Jeep. Caffeine and rage are two things that don’t work well together.

***

When Stiles gets on the scene, a quite large bus parking lot delimited by a metal fence, there is a police officer at the entry. “That way, sir,” the man directs him after Stiles shows him his badge, pointing to a corner of the large space when a few others police officers and some agents are already at work.

Stiles thanks him with a nod, walking to where Isaac is already waiting for him, glasses hanging from the front collar of his sweater as he taps something on his tablet. “Skipping breakfast,” he says, not looking up. “Wise decision.”

If he’s smelled the cinnamon rolls on Stiles, recognized the distinct aroma of coffee that has surely seeped into his clothes or just guessed from his facial expression Stiles can't tell, but he surely is able to recognize a head-up when he hears one. And that was as loud and clear as a freaking alarm bell. “That bad,” he replies, doesn’t make it a question because he really doesn’t want Isaac to answer him.

“She’s been found on that bus,” Isaac points at one of the vehicles, leading Stiles through the comings and goings of people. “The driver says he thought she was sleeping at first, says he actually tried to wake her up when they got to the last stop, only to discover that she was dead. He called the police, then.”

“Did they touch or move anything before calling us?”

“Doesn’t seem so, no. Though Derek is still talking to the two agents who got here first so I don’t really know-” Isaac pauses mid-sentence, frowning at the screen in his hands. “Who told the fucking _press_?” It’s almost a growl, words curling in the air like vicious, poisonous snakes. “Boyd!” he calls, and then he’s gone, stomping away like someone who’s planning to blow up something. After having already set it on fire.

Hands in his pockets, Stiles wishes good luck to the poor bastard who’s just put himself on Isaac and Boyd’s list.

He gives a look around then, exchanging a few words with a couple agents before silently walking to where Derek is standing, clearly occupied with turning what should be a simple conversation between quasi-colleagues in a third-degree. Seriously, Stiles has lost any hope of domesticating him.

“Uhm,” he clears his throat when Derek actually asks if the two officers have any precedent record he should know about. One of them looks like he’s about to get a tic, his left eye twitching in a worrisome way. “Would you please excuse us for a moment?” Stiles smiles, grabbing Derek’s arm and leading him away before someone gets shot.

Derek doesn’t seem too happy about Stiles leading him away but doesn’t complain, follows him until they are standing beside the back of the bus. “Look, being appropriate isn’t in my job description,” he then says, defending himself before Stiles can even open his mouth.

Stiles crosses his arms on his chest. “Neither is pissing off the police, though that doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”

In reply Derek’s lips twist in a _fuck you, I’m the Alpha, I should be the one barking orders_ way, lower lip slightly pouting and making Stiles want to poke at it. “I need you to examine the body,” he shoots after a second, because he possesses the same, lovely timing of a tiger lunging at a man with the intent of snapping his neck.

Waving his open hands in the air, Stiles nods. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll need Erica, though.” She’s usually the one who helps Stiles during his site inspections, not only because her observing skills are quite refined and second to no one, but mostly because she supplies a set of extra, enhanced senses that Stiles’ human body lacks.

Nodding, Derek takes a deep breath. “The stench of death follows him,” he tells Stiles, fingers clenching into fists for a long, heavy second and then relaxing again.

After that, Stiles really doesn’t need to hear anything else, doesn’t want to spend another moment lingering out here when he could be on the bus, making himself useful. So he snaps his plastic gloves on and, finally, climbs the three steps separating him from the fifth victim.

Inside, Danny is already there, one of his shamelessly expensive cameras in his hands as he photographs every single detail of the scene. “Hey,” he greets Stiles without looking away from the small screen of the camera.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles greets back when his mind finally registers what he’s seeing. The only sight it’s truly sickening and if there is something that he already knows is that it’ll get even worse once Lydia will arrive.

The girl looks so young, barely twenty, the cherry-colored, woolen scarf circling her pale neck in sharp contrast with the light gray of her hoodie, and yet her expression is distorted into one of pure, unbearable horror, the desperate emptiness in her eyes making Stiles want to punch something.

It isn’t before another ten minutes until Lydia gets on the scene, and by then Erica has joined Stiles on the bus and has started cataloguing everything he found. She isn’t alone, though, Jackson following her at close distance as he leaves his sporty car parked right in the middle of the parking lot. Classic.

“Thought today was your day off,” Stiles tells him just as Jackson slips his sunglasses in the front pocket of his leather jacket. His Hugo Boss leather jacket. The one Derek and the rest of the pack got him last Christmas. The one that still makes Stiles’ wallet cry because _pricey_.

Running his fingers through his hair, Jackson actually _squints_ at Stiles. “I figured Lydia could use a ride,” he says at last. Which is obviously a big, fat lie, seeing as they both perfectly know why he’s there.

They follow Lydia back on the bus, standing behind her in silence as she examines the body. “There is a smell I can’t recognize,” Jackson whispers after a while, wiggling his nose in the useless attempt of catching what it is.

“Probably some kind of poisonous mixture,” Lydia tells him from where she’s crouched on the body, a magnifying glass in her hand. “There are residues of some kind of foam at the corners of her mouth, must have been a very slow one.”

Danny steps beside her. “There are what seem to be needles holes all over the back of her neck, give it a look,” he says, rounding the passenger seat until he’s behind the girl.

Not moving from where she is, Lydia gives him a long, piercing look that clearly says how much she doesn’t like to be given directions when it comes to her job, not even from one of them. Nonetheless, she follows Danny behind the seat to examine the body. What she sees makes a dark cloud descend over her eyes, her perturbed expression making Jackson hiss by reflex. “These aren’t simple needles holes,” she says, slowly. “They are all over her pain pressure points. The killer has probably tortured her by pressing needles against the main bundles of nerves in her body. If we suppose that the venom took a quite long time to kick in- Then she’s probably screamed for hours.”

Stiles doesn’t find it hard to believe, seeing as her face is distorted in an expression of pure desperation, lines all strained and _wrong_ , in sharp contrast with the exaggerate makeup that’s covering any other imperfection. “We’ll need more information about that venom,” he tells Lydia once a body bag has been zipped up around the cadaver.

She shoots him the look of the long-suffering. “No shit, Sherlock.” And then, more softly, her eyes darting from Stiles to the  stretcher behind him and back- “I’ll make sure to get on it as soon as I’m back at my lab.”

A few minutes later, she’s off to the morgue and Jackson with her, his black Porsche roaring behind the coroner’s vehicle.

There is a small crowd gathered at the entry of the parking lot and Stiles recognizes them instantly. “They look like fucking hyenas,” he tells Erica.

Beside him, she sneers, blonde hair timidly shining under the faint sunlight. “At least those don’t have a volition.”

Yeah, she’s right. Stiles shoots another look at where the press is waiting for them behind the police tape, armed with cameras and microphones, each one of them straining their necks in the faint hope of catching sight of something good. It’s nauseating. “Derek,” Stiles calls, doesn’t even have to raise his voice because Derek is just behind him, organizing the displacement of the bus.

When Derek notices them too his eyes go dark with barely controlled rage. “Boyd,” he barks, doesn’t even have to add anything before Boyd is nodding and strolling towards the group, black sunglasses covering his eyes and the air of someone who’s gonna kick your ass and send you home crying if you don’t cooperate. Which usually means that the reporters will get only three very brief questions before Boyd will ask them to leave.

Just when Boyd start speaking, Derek’s hand lands on Stiles’ shoulder. “Chris needs me somewhere else so I’m gonna leave for a few hours,” he says, voice a bit rough around the edges. “I’ll see you later?”

“Sure,” Stiles nods, keeps himself from following his instinct to lean against Derek’s body. “I’ll make sure to start working on the fingerprints we found as soon as I’m back at the office.”

There is a faint brushing of fingers at the base of his neck, so light Stiles might as well have imagined it, and then Derek is walking away. Stiles sighs, and braces himself for another long day.

***

That evening, Stiles is standing in front of the large wall where the victims’ picture have been attached, a Momo-ful of coffee in his hands, when Derek walks in.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Derek tells him, dropping his jacket against the flat surface of Stiles’ desk as he walks beside Stiles.

Slowly, Stiles takes a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, well-” He doesn’t even know why he’s still here, seeing as he isn’t even working, tiredness pawing at the back of his mind. “I wasn’t really in the mood for anything else, anyway.”

Dozens and dozens of pictures, taken by Danny or by one of Chris’ assistants, are staring back at them, telling them about broken hopes and projects that will never be realized, smiles that were lost and will never be found. If only they knew how to stop this. If only.

They stand there in silence, side by side, for a few minutes, steam raising from Stiles’ coffee in long, comfort-scented curls. “You know what,” Stiles prompts after a while, lets Derek steal his cup of coffee, “I really feel like punching something right now.” There is something that feels like smoke filling his chest and he needs it _gone_.

Derek doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Yeah,” he says, voice low and careful as he places the mug on Isaac’s desk, “me too.”

Shortly, that is how they end up inside the headquarters’ gym at nine pm, the loud silence of the enormous room welcoming them as they get rid of their jackets, throwing them on a wood bench in a corner, and don’t even bother to change into more comfortable clothes. The softness of the training mattress under their bare feet feels strangely comforting as they step on them.

It’s been a while since last time they did something like this, used this method to get some of the tension out of their systems, but it still feels familiar in a way Stiles can’t describe. Watching the lights into Derek’s eyes shift until the predator in him is surfacing, powerful and lethal and so magnetizing, Stiles loves this, loves how he can almost taste adrenaline on his tongue, can let everything else go as he slowly starts plotting his first move. He doesn’t want Derek to go easy on him.

Despite his relaxed demeanor, Derek is the one who makes the first move, crouching slightly before lunging at Stiles, fingers clenched into fists as he aims a punch to Stiles’ jaw. But the blow doesn’t hit him, knuckles barely grazing skin as Stiles moves, fast and confident, swerving to his left and lowering on his knees so he finds himself behind Derek.

He doesn’t even think about it, reacts by pure instinct, kicking the back of Derek’s knee and sending him staggering forward, which is still something, seeing as Derek is secretly made of bricks and, like, titanium. He doesn’t miss a beat, steps forward to grab Derek’s shoulder and make him spin, but Derek is faster, elbowing him on his solar plexus before turning to face him.

The delighted, burning spark in his eyes sends a rush of excitement down Stiles’ spine.

They each land a few well-placed blows, nothing too serious but Stiles will surely have some bruises coloring his skin tomorrow. Which is _good_.

Then, everything happens quickly, as Derek manages to grab Stiles’ shirt and drag him closer and  Stiles reacts by hooking a foot to one of Derek’s ankles and _pulls_. The move, though, instead of just tackling Derek, sends them both on the floor, as Derek drags Stiles down with him.

Stiles finds himself falling on top of Derek, can feel the other man's chest rising and falling under him, and has barely time to blink before Derek is using his weight to his advantage, rolling them over, and Stiles finds himself trapped under him.

Sudden stillness leaves them both panting and wide-eyed. “Stiles,” Derek breathes out, a thin veil of sweat making his skin shine under the gym’s lights. He wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrists, barely-there pressure keeping them pinned to the mattress. Stiles lets him.

Suddenly, the smoke that had been filling his lungs thickens into something more tangible, a shiver that makes Stiles’ breath falter and his blood boil in his veins. He lets go, then, leaning his head back against the welcoming softness of the mattress, watches Derek under long, dark eyelashes.

As if a switch has just been turned, the green in Derek’s eyes becomes more intense, his look darting from Stiles’ eyes to his bared neck, where muscles and tendons and blood are silently screaming all the words that Stiles can’t bring himself to say.

Derek’s eyes go dark in a whole new way. “ _Stiles_ ,” he says again, only this time it sounds like the first drop before a violent storm, sharp and round and _crucial_.

Shit.

But Stiles can’t do anything against the surge of desire, of _need_ , that hits him like a powerful wave, his dick hardening in his trousers as every bit of skin Derek is touching starts burning. “I know,” he replies, incoherently, a startled groan escaping his lips when he finally, finally lets himself go, cants his hips up to meet Derek’s. It’s perfect and yet not nearly enough and Stiles wants more, more, _more_.

Hovering over him, Derek looks wrecked. “Then don’t,” he tries to say, faintly tries to talk both himself and Stiles out of this, but his fingers are still clutching Stiles’ wrists, blunt nails marking skin as he struggles against his own desires. But then Stiles pushes his hips up again, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick at his lips and- “Damn,” he curses, presses his body down to finally, _finally_ meet Stiles’.

It’s frantic, rough and graceless, they don’t take their time, don’t even try to make it last, Derek’s body pinning Stiles’ in place as they rut against one another, hips moving in a weird sync that should not work but instead makes Stiles whine in pleasure, his dick so hard it almost hurts, aching for a bit more friction. But he doesn’t want to stop, can’t stop, not even to get out of his pants, slide his briefs off so Derek can touch him, palm Stiles’ hot, smooth skin, the roundness of his balls- “Holy shit. _Derek_.”

That’s what does it, Stiles’ desperate, broken voice, the trembling note in it as he calls Derek’s name. It makes Derek go crazy, makes him push his clothed cock against the sweet, tender spot where Stiles’ thigh meets his hips again and again and _again_ , his forehead resting against Stiles’ as a loud, chest-deep groan vibrates out of him and he comes in his pants.

Fucking hell. The thought alone is so disbelievingly arousing that it only takes a couple more thrusts before Stiles finds himself gasping, wet, desert-hot air escaping his lungs and caressing Derek’s parted lips. He stills, fingers clenching and tendons straining where Derek’s grip has gone lax, his orgasm hitting him like a bullet, spasms running through the muscles of his thighs as he comes in copious, hot spurts.

And then, when Derek gets up from where he is laying against Stiles’ body, eyes fixed on the ground, cold air hits him like a sharpened whip, cutting in places that can’t be seen but are still able to bleed. He watches in silence as Derek grabs his jacket on his way to the door, leaving Stiles wet and panting on the gym’s floor.

***

Next morning, when Stiles finally works up the courage to open Derek’s office door,  Chris is in it, sitting at Derek’s desk. Again. Only this time Stiles knows that it isn’t a coincidence or some damn broken pipe’s fault.

Taken aback, Stiles almost drops the stack of papers in his hands. “Fucker,” he mutters, biting his tongue when Chris actually raises a eyebrow. “I mean- Good morning, sir.”

“Hello, Stiles. Did you need something?” There is a pen in Chris’ hand, and he places it carefully on the desk. Stiles doesn’t like it even one bit.

“No,” he says, survival instinct kicking in before logic. “Well, uhm, to be honest- I was asked to analyze the  fingerprints on the bus and-” he doesn’t say _Derek asked me_ , doesn’t even think about it – _him_ – and tries instead to focus on the job he needs to get done.

“Good,” Chris thankfully puts him out of his misery, a soft, knowing smile on his lips. “I’ll work with you on these, then.”

Stiles nods, trying to repress a sigh, sits on one of the chairs in front of the desk and pretends that Derek isn’t avoiding him.

***

Luckily, Derek’s sudden attack of _let’s deal with my manly feels kindergarten-style_ syndrome lasts only one day and a half, and by Thursday afternoon he’s back in his office as always, with the small difference that every time Stiles looks his way, Derek’s eyes are always busy studying the wall, or Erica’s shoes, or even the freaking name plate hanged to his damn door.

 _It’s a plate_ , Stiles wants to tell him. _With your name on it. Please, stop being an asshole and just look me in the eyes._ But instead he just tightens his lips and walks the hell out of the open space, fuming because his life is just a long series of bad choices.

The underground shooting range seems like a good place to be right now, so that’s where Stiles goes, his fingers itching with the sheer need to just do something, his gun a welcomed weight in his hand as he palms its grip, fingers curving against the metal in a familiar way.

Once he’s wearing his ear muffs it’s only a matter of seconds before the world becomes a blurry mess of colors and shadows, as Stiles focuses on the targets on the wall in front of him, releasing every single drop of frustration, anger, _lust_ running in his blood with each shot. It feels cathartic, somehow, it always has been, so he just keeps firing, ignoring his phone when it vibrates in his pocket, and emptying magazine after magazine.

When, almost an hour later, he exits the elevator, Jackson, Danny, Derek and Erica are gone from the office and Scott and Isaac are sitting together at Isaac’s desk, going over something on his computer as Scott pauses to take some notes from time to time.

“I texted you,” Scott tells him when Stiles is only a few meters away. He doesn’t raise his eyes from what he’s writing, but his tone alone already speaks volumes.

Stiles pauses in front of his desk. “I was pretty busy,” he replies, which isn’t a real lie but still tastes like it.

In reply, Scott only hums. Because of course he knows, he’s Stiles’ best friend, how could he not? Even if he can’t guess all the details he surely can see that something is wrong between Derek and Stiles, can feel the change of tension in the air.

It probably should upset Stiles, the fact that he’s such an open book for people like Scott who know what to look for, but instead the idea of his friends already knowing comforts him, makes Stiles feel like he doesn’t have to be afraid to rely onto someone. Still, when Scott drags him to a corner a few minutes later, asking him what the hell is wrong between him and Derek and why is the Alpha acting like someone pissed in his lunch, something inside Stiles tightens its grip around his throat, whispering him to keep the matter for himself, treat it carefully because it might explode in his hands if he doesn’t.

So- “Nothing’s wrong,” he hears himself say, shoots a glance at Isaac who’s pretending to not be listening in and doing a very poor job of it.

Thinking about it, that probably isn’t the reply Scott was waiting for, seeing as his eyebrows raise slightly and what looks a lot like hurt, but might as well be surprise, makes his eyes widen. “Oh,” he says, lips parting as if by their own volition. “I thought- Well, maybe I was mistaken.”

“Yeah,” Stiles licks his lips, “maybe.” He doesn’t say another word, because he hates, _hates_ to lie to Scott, or hide things from him, but this time the problem is too personal and too delicate and Stiles just doesn’t know what else to do. Not to mention the fact that Derek is their Alpha and, sooner or later, this shit going on between him and Stiles is going to affect the pack too. Already has.

“Okay,” Scott nods slowly, unsure but loyal as always. “So I’m going to go back to-” he points behind his shoulders, were Isaac is now openly staring at them. “If you need me, for _anything_ , you know where to find me.” Bless Scott and his subtlety.

“Of course,” Stiles tells him. His head feels heavy again, though, and so, since he can’t seem to focus anyway and is just feeling like shit, he grabs his Jeep’s keys from his desk and – doesn’t run, nope – stalks the hell out of the room.

Outside, the sky is just starting to darken, a deep, rich shade of blue permeating the air as the sun starts to disappear behind buildings. Stiles doesn’t even mind where he’s heading to, only focuses on the road as he lets his Jeep drive him away, at least for a while, from the Headquarters, from the memory of Derek’s body moving against his, from the shadow of a heartless killer and the rest of his problems.

Chilly air enters the car from the windows and Stiles finds himself to be thankful for it, the slight cold caressing his face keeping him grounded like he hasn’t felt in days. So warm it burns, that’s Derek, his skin, his way of acting with the people he cares about, the rumbling laugh pouring from his chest when he’s happy and relaxed- Stiles can’t understand how all of this has suddenly turned into awkwardness and silence, why he should be- Afraid? Ashamed? How could Stiles know how he’s supposed to feel if Derek won’t talk to him?

Beautiful, full of a power that sometimes still scares Stiles, Derek is so many different things at once and yet, in that frail moment when he’d came, Derek had looked _so human_ above Stiles, so easy to touch- To _keep_. And Stiles hadn’t wanted anything more than that, hadn’t wished for anything more than Derek’s skin against his and Derek’s laugh in his ear.

The worst thing is that Stiles knows that Derek had wanted it too, wouldn’t have given in if he hadn’t, so he can’t understand why Derek is taking a step back now. It can’t be because of the pack, Stiles is completely sure about this, should probably be surprised by the fact that he knows no one would’ve nothing against him and Derek being- Well. Thing is he isn’t, because he knows those people, his family.

As the road goes, disappearing under the hood of his Jeep, Stiles’ thoughts take a darker path, one that leads to rejection and solitude, to burned rooms and a boy crying alone when his dad couldn’t see or hear him. They both have some deep and still raw emotional scars, that’s a fact that can’t be denied and maybe that’s the real problem, this never ending blackness filling all the space inside their chest and leaving space for nothing else.

“I was just guessing at numbers and figures,” Stiles finds himself humming, as he finally, turns on his building’s street. “Pulling your puzzles apart.” It’s almost a murmur, the memory of the song’s melody enveloping his mind like a soothing blanket. He doesn’t waste any more time, though, killing the engine and getting out of the Jeep.

When he opens the door of his apartment, he finds Lydia and Jackson on the couch. Having sex. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he almost shouts, closing the door as quickly as he manages. Looks like he’ll have to sleep somewhere else, after all.

Perfect. Just- Perfect.

***

At least, Isaac doesn’t seem too bothered when he comes home to Stiles starfishing (totally a verb) across his bed. “I’m hungry,” instead he says, launching himself on top of Stiles because he’s cruel like that.

From where he ends up crushed under Isaac’ slender-looking but still muscled body, Stiles huffs, trying to wriggle himself free, at least enough to breathe. “I’ll let you know that killing me isn’t the smartest thing to do if you want me to cook for you,” he pants, elbowing Isaac because _heavy_.

Since Isaac is one of those cute, totally annoying puppies who’ll gnaw on your ear at six in the fucking morning on a Sunday until you are wide awake and cursing but will _still pet them_ \- Well, he doesn’t even flinch, the fucker, stays instead right where he is as if Stiles is the best pillow he’s ever had. “Is this about Derek?” he asks.

Stiles flushes. And then hits him harder. “No,” he denies,  doesn’t even shake his head because _he can’t_. “No, why would _anything_ be about Derek?” Jesus, he needs to find new friends, ones that will not use their supernatural strength to coerce him into talking about his feelings.

“Okay,” Isaac nods, voice quiet against Stiles’ ear. “So you don’t want to talk about it?” he lifts himself up just enough so Stiles can shift to his left, and lies down again next to him, legs still tangled with Stiles’ though because he is a total sucker for cuddling.

Stiles glares at him. “Exactly, I don’t. Want to talk about anything. Especially Derek. Who has nothing to do with me being here.” _Really, really smooth, Stilinski_.

A knowing smile pulls at the corners of Isaac’s lips, baring a line of perfectly white, blunt teeth. “Your overuse of punctuation marks just gave me a headache.”

“Sucks to be you,” Stiles smiles back. And then, since it seems that thankfully they are done talking (or not-talking) about Derek- “So- What do you wanna eat?”

Big, shiny puppy eyes. Seriously, Isaac was probably dumped by a unicorn at the foot of a fucking rainbow when he was a baby, because there isn’t any other plausible excuse for a human to be this cute. “Shrimps fried rice?” he asks, hopeful, raising his head from the pillow.

Stiles barely keeps himself from cooing. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What about Boyd and Danny? Are they coming home?”

Shrugging, Isaac shifts on the middle of his bed. “Don’t think so. Boyd said they were going to be late. Seems like the police needed us to examine a body.”

Wait. “A body?”

“Yeah,” Isaac’s eyes set on Stiles. “Nothing attached to our case, though. Just a common crime.”

Nodding in response, Stiles finally gets up from the bed, leaving Isaac to rest as he walks into the kitchen to cook them dinner.

***

On Friday morning it turns out that the police needs something more than a one-time consultation, seeing as Stiles and Danny both stumble into a detective coming out from Derek’s office during their coffee break.

“Call the others. I want all of you in my office in ten,” Derek tells them before slamming the door closed. It’s the first time he’s looked Stiles in the eyes in four days.

Exactly eight minutes later – nine for Jackson because the princess went to the bathroom first – they are all in Derek’ office as ordered and Stiles finds himself standing by the door next to Boyd, doesn’t even look at his usual spot on Derek’s desk, which is currently crowded by a stack of dossiers anyway. Not that he knows. Because he isn’t looking.

Anyway, Derek informs them that the police suspects the body they’ve found to be the young daughter of a – vampire – drug dealer that Derek’s team has caught in the previous months. “They will need someone who knows the ambient and the people gravitating in it,” Derek says, eyes on the dossier in his hands.

Which is him silently telling them that he needs a volunteer, someone who’s willing to be removed from their main case to help the police solve a war between drug cartels. As if that will even happen. But maybe-

“Well,” he prompts, clearing his voice because he’s not entirely sure he won’t get beheaded for what he’s about to say. “Last time Erica went undercover for a while, maybe-”

Probably, Erica understands why Stiles is suggesting this solution, and that’s why she doesn’t claw his eyes out on the spot. “Don’t even think about it,” she though interrupts him, giving Stiles the stink eye and then turning to Derek. “Boyd and Scott can take care of that too, they spent the same amount of time I did with Ferguson, I don’t see why-”

“Enough,” Derek cuts her protests, voice calm but firm, an Alpha’s voice. When he speaks again, his eyes are on Stiles, focused and intense. _Ready_. “I’ll think about it and then will let you know in the morning.” That’s their clue to leave and everyone takes it, as they silently flow out of the room like a small creek finding its course.

Despite being the closest one to the door, Stiles is the last one to exit. Before going he gives Derek a long, piercing look, figures it’s useless to hide when Derek can hear his heartbeat anyway, can read his emotion probably better than Stiles himself. When Derek doesn’t acknowledge him, though, pretends to be busy reading something on his computer screen, Stiles lets out a small sighs and slips out of the door.

-only to find Erica waiting for him, arms crossed over her chest and the look of someone who’s just swallowed a lemon but didn’t get any Tequila to wash it away. “What is your problem, Stiles, hm?” she hisses once Derek’s office door is closed.

“What is-” Stiles falters for a moment, because Derek’s closed up face is occupying a generous amount of space in his mind. “Wait,” he says, “I just thought it’d be a good change, spending a few days away from all this mess-”

But Erica’s scowl is practically faxing him that she’s tired of his bullshit. “Oh,” she interrupts him again, “and, exactly, which mess do you mean?” she asks, her eyes darting from Stiles’ face to Derek’s office and back in a gesture that’s too calculated to be taken as casual.

Surely, her blow lands a bit too close to home and Stiles finds himself stiffening, spine setting straight because no- _No_. “You don’t get to-”

“I don’t get to- What?” Erica’s voice tells him, sharp as a blade. There is no way the others didn’t hear them, no way _Derek_ didn’t hear them. Hell, they are freaking werewolves, they’d probably hear a bee overflying the building if they put themselves on it- “Look, Stiles,” she continues when he doesn’t reply, “I’m quite angry at you right now and so this probably isn’t the best time for us to have this talk, but-” she pinches the base of her nose, as if collecting her thoughts. “You are my friend and one of the people I respect the most in here, but you don’t get to choose for me when it comes to my job, okay? I get why you did it, but I’d rather you wouldn’t do it again in the future.”

That’s the problem with being both pack and a team, that sometimes the boundaries between the two things become so blurred that it’s difficult to discern which one is which. Stiles’ instinct to protect Erica, to keep her far away from something that has had her very upset in the past month,  has driven him into interfering with her professional life. “I’m sorry,” Stiles says, recognizing his error.

In change, Erica smiles at him, arms closing around Stiles as she drags him into a hug. “It’s okay, I just needed you to get it,” she murmurs against his ear. And then, before walking away- “Oh, Lydia said she needs to talk to you.”

 _She was having sexy times with Jackson on my couch!_ Stiles almost want to shout. The only thing that keeps him from actually doing it is the fact that the others would probably ask him if he’s got pictures, the big perverts. “Great,” he instead mutters between himself, slipping his hands in his pockets as he walks towards the elevator.

***

Long story short, Lydia wanted to see Stiles only to tell him that Jackson and her are done having sexy times on the couch and that he can come back home, but first they are going out after work and he’s buying her a drink. Stiles doesn’t quite understand how her mind works, but rolls with it anyway.

They end up – or better, Lydia made them – in a small, modern bar all decorated in whites and reds, sipping their drinks while sitting at a, uhm, cloud-shaped table. Or maybe some sort of flowery-shaped one. Interior design has never been Stiles’ forte.

Seeing as everyone seems to know by now about Derek and Stiles’ debacle, Stiles has already braced himself for the third degree that he’s about to undergo. After all that’s Lydia he’s talking about and Stiles is pretty sure that she has, like, a gossip degree or something. So, when the question he so much fears doesn’t arrive, he finds himself a bit puzzled.

So, when Lydia stops talking about Chris’ coroner and how Derek should totally try and steal him because Deaton is _amazing_ \- “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he ventures and then hides behind his drink, faster than light.

She blinks, staring at him as if she can’t understand the language Stiles is speaking. “Ask you what?”

Oh. Stiles’ wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t expecting it at all. “Uhm,” he says, “I was thinking about getting a cat?”

That earns him a loud laugh from Lydia and a few curious glances from a few people sitting near them.

It’s way past one in the morning when Stiles finally parks his Jeep in front of their building and, on the passenger seat, Lydia is giggling and singing along the radio. Stiles watches her with a smile and thinks that she looks beautiful.

Though his smile lasts nothing more than a few moment, because then he notices that Derek’s black Camaro is parked right in front of the entry, which, of course, means that Derek is sitting on their couch when Lydia and Stiles get to the apartment. Fucking yay.

Thinking about it, Stiles should probably have escaped when he was still in time, dropping Lydia home and then going back to Isaac’s instead of choosing to endure this torture. He actually suspects he might be a bit of a masochist, and he does not mean it in the _oh, yes, it hurts so good, please, more_ way. In fact, his behavior might be probably described as recklessly stupid.

Probably, Lydia was counting on that, seeing as she’s suddenly smiling her delighted smile. “Sorry, a couple Martinis got in our way,” she apologizes to Derek. Which shouldn’t absolutely make sense because she didn’t- Of course she did.

Stiles nervously fingers the zip of his hoodie. “Lydia,” he groans from where he’s still standing on the threshold, door open because he totally needs a quick escape route.

“What,” Lydia actually _barks_ back while managing to keep the voice of an angel. Stiles has the strong suspicion that, if she could, she would be probably banging Derek and Stiles’ head together right now. “I didn’t ask you. You should be happy,” she smiles amiably.

That makes actual chills run down Stiles’ back so he refrains himself from speaking again. From where he is sitting on the couch, Derek still hasn’t opened his mouth. Hell, Stiles isn’t sure he is even _breathing_.

“You know what,” Lydia tells them, clapping her hands as if a perfect, beautifully bright idea has just come to her mind, “I think that I’m gonna spend the night at Jackson’s.” And, with that, she’s pulling Stiles inside the living room and actually locking the front door behind her.

Okay, the situation has officially turned from awkward to embarrassing now, because Derek is staring at Stiles and Stiles is very busy studying the laces of his shoes even if he can see his face burning and his heart thumping _so loudly_ , and what really Stiles wants to do is- “I think I’m about to have a stroke,” he wheezes, eyes huge as he finally looks up to Derek.

Only that the spot where the Alpha was sitting is empty now, because Derek is right beside Stiles, hands reaching to touch his neck, fingers settling against its long, smooth curve and gently pressing against Stiles’ pulse. “Just breathe,” Derek murmurs, deep and calm, his words resonating inside Stiles’ chest like a lazy seismic wave.

And Stiles does, lets the pressure of Derek’ fingertips, of his nails, against the thin skin of his neck ground him, tries to will the word back into focus one gulp of air at time. “Breathing,” he says, after a few minutes, voice just as unsteady as he feels, “I’m doing it right.”

Derek probably isn’t of the same opinion, though, because he actually frowns at that, hands dropping from Stiles’ neck to his forearm as he drags Stiles to sit on the couch. “Just sit here and be quiet for a minute,” he tells Stiles. “I’ll be back.”

“That doesn’t sound much reassuring,” Stiles mutters back. And he was pretty sure that he was about to say something else, but the softness of the leather against his back distracts him from any further comment.

After a minute, Derek _really_ comes back, which is something, seeing as Stiles was expecting him to try and escape from the bathroom window or something. “You did come back,” he says, a hint of surprise dancing at the edges of his words, because he’s a moron who can’t keep his mouth shut, not even if his life depended on it.

Derek sits next to him on the couch. “Stiles,” he says, a fluid richness in his tone, as if the word actually is something more than just a name.

“That’s me,” Stiles raises his hand, waving his fingers. He doesn’t know what Derek is doing here, can’t understand, for the first time since he’s known him, what Derek needs and that scares him more than anything else.

However, something must have given him away, because Derek’s fingers are suddenly gripping the front of his shirt, gently fisting the cloth as Derek _tugs_. “Yeah,” he breathes out, nosing at the hollow at the base of Stiles’ neck, “that’s you.”

Heat blooms into Stiles’ abdomen like a water lily in the middle of a lake, timid and colorful, surrounded by something so much bigger than it and yet so very strong. He swallows loudly, trying to match Derek’s current behavior with the one of the man who’s avoided him like the plague in the last few days, blinks in confusion because _this doesn’t make sense_. And yet he can’t bring himself to object to anything Derek is doing.

Slowly, like a playful shark taking its time to study his prey, Derek lingers between the tender, defenseless spot between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, fingertips hooking on Stiles’ collar and tugging at it until more bare skin is showing, Stiles’ collarbone a perfect curve to run his lips over. “Her smell is all over you,” he growls at last, a minute or a year later, Stiles doesn’t know,  the scary, possessive note that he’s kept hidden for so long suddenly surfacing, leaving Stiles trembling and almost breathless.

Stupidly- “It’s not like that,” Stiles brings himself to whisper. Not because it’s been years since he was that guy, the one running after Lydia and straightening his shoulders whenever she walked into a room, because Derek already knows this. Everyone does. What really Stiles means is that Lydia’s is only the most recent one of the various scent clinging to his skin, that he bears the invisible mark of the pack and he’s proud of it, won’t hide it from anyone, especially not Derek.

That’s why, against any reasonable reason, he tips his head back, spontaneously giving Derek full access to his neck. Submitting. It’s only a word, a concept that has always been quietly sitting in a corner of Stiles’ mind, listening and waiting, learning with Stiles that sometimes you just have to let things happen.

The quick, so imperceptible catch in Derek’s breath tells Stiles he’s made the right move. “I know,” Derek rumbles, tongue hitting sharp teeth this time, a change that shouldn’t be welcomed but instead feels exactly right. “I know,” he says again, his tongue licking a short, wet stripe across Stiles’ neck, from side to side, almost as if Derek is marking the path his claws will sooner or later wander over.

That, more than anything else, is what at last startles Stiles, dragging him back from his state of inertness and making him frown. “Do you?” he asks, and it feels a bit like falling in the dark.

As suddenly as he’d grasped Stiles’ shirt, Derek lets him go, cloth slipping from his fingertips as easily as water would rush over glass. The look in his eyes is deathly serious when they land on Stiles. “You already know the answer to that question.”

Only that Stiles isn’t having any more of that sibylline shit today, is sick and tired of playing guess. He cocks his head to the side. “No,” he says, licking his lips. “I really, really don’t.”

At that, Derek looks at him as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “Stiles,” he says again, though he sounds tired this time, like he’s been holding his breath for too much and he just wants to _let go_. “You surely don’t want to be having this conversation,” he frowns, his eyebrows doing that slow, weird dance that means something is making him feel conflicted.

Stiles doesn’t want to be that something, and yet- “Is this about the bite?” he frees the words in the air, watches as they sink in as he places a hand over Derek’s thigh, heat cradling in his fingertips as he brushes them against the rough cotton of the jeans, feels the tight and firm muscle under it and it _burns_.

Actually, Derek looks a bit thrown off balance by the question, but Stiles can see that he also takes his time to think about it seriously, conceding the moment the importance it deserves. Because this is an old question, one that neither of them has ever approached but that now is fiercely claiming its answer. They need it before moving to the next stage, whatever that might be.

“I can’t have half of you,” Derek at last says, rubbing a hand across his face. A bitter laugh escapes his lips as he continues: “Of course it’s about the bite. It always is. If I bit you, then I’d have you completely, you couldn’t deny me, you couldn’t even think about living a life that doesn’t include me,” Stiles feels him shudder under his palm. “There would be no balance in that and it would only consume you. But, as a human, you can choose how much of yourself you want to give over, place your boundaries where you like them the best, where it’s _safer_. I’d never push you, Stiles. I’d never ask for more than that, especially not if that meant losing you.”

 “That’s not-” Stiles tries to say, because Derek has got this wrong in so many ways.

“Are you sure?” Derek interrupts him, though, his hand covering Stiles’ where it is resting on Derek’s thigh. “Biting you, that’s my _instinct_. You too often forget that the wolf and I are one, that we share everything, from our thoughts to our needs and- This isn’t even about you and me anymore. You have a place inside my pack, Stiles, an important one, and I can’t just send everything to hell. I can’t _fail_ _them_.”

There is something so raw in Derek’s eyes, in the way he’s just holding onto Stiles’ hand, honest words spilling from his mouth like a well-aged wine, that it makes Stiles’ heart tremble inside his chest, a new consciousness settling in and pushing him into motion.

“You will always have me,” he whispers to Derek, chin brushing against his shoulder as Stiles leans in. “We see every sort of monster every fucking day of our life, so don’t come to me talking about instincts, because they don’t define you as a person. Because that’s not who you are. I know it, Derek. I know _you_. And you can’t hide from me.”

Derek’s eyes are huge now, darkly shining under the bright lights of the room. Huge and uncertain and _scared_. “But that’s what it really is about, Stiles,” he noses at Stiles’ temple. “You can’t want that, you can’t want to live this kind of life when-”

It’s easy to see where Derek’s words are coming from. Afternoons spent lazing in bed together and a long stripe of days, reports prepared together, coffees shared and small touches aligning and forming a strong bond. And Stiles understands why Derek is so afraid of losing it, knows it even too well since solitude has been his friend for a very long time. But he’s tired of being scared, doesn’t want to worry about what he could lose anymore when he could instead try and conquer what he wants.

“But that’s what I’m already doing,” he says, lips so close to Derek’s he can almost taste them, the scent of his skin. “We chose to live it a long time ago and you won’t ever hear me say that I regret it, because I don’t.”

Closing his eyes, Derek inhales a long, shaky breath. “You aren’t lying. You really want this,” he whispers, wonder in his tone almost as if he can’t believe himself, his senses.

Leaning in and covering the small, thrilling distance left between them, Stiles pecks him on the lips. “Moron,” he grins, so stupidly happy because he knows where this is heading, can already feel the tension curl in the air, sweet and hot and crazily real. “Of course I want it. _I want you.”_

Out of a million things, that really must be the right choice of words, because Derek’s lips finally break into a mirroring grin against Stiles’, his fingers caressing the back of Stiles’ hand, tracing the intricate net of veins running underneath skin. “Kinda remember that.”

Which, wow, suddenly ends up on the very top of Stiles’ _most arousing phrases actual living, non-crazy, people ever told me_. Because the memory of having Derek hard and rutting against him? Totally gives him an instant boner. “Uhm,” he so very coherently blushes, dick twitching with interest in his pants at the mere thought.

Thank luck though Derek’s lips on his save Stiles from muttering something totally embarrassing. “Yeah.” It’s a growling sound, one that has Stiles’ heartbeat suddenly quickening, red, sweet-scented fog clouding his mind as Derek’s tongue, his teeth, push him into opening his mouth.

Smooth, wet, _hungry_ , Derek’s kiss both destroys and rebuilds each one of Stiles’ convictions, rearranging them in a perfect puzzle made of possibilities. A chest-deep groan escapes him when Stiles’ hand slides further up over Derek’s thigh, slow and teasingly, only to skip the best part and end up pressed against the solidity of Derek’s chest, fingers splayed wide over cotton and lively muscles.

It doesn’t take much more than a barely-there pressure, fingertips faintly pushing, until Derek is leaning against the back of the couch, shoulders sinking into leather as his hand closes on the fabric of Stiles’ shirt, drags Stiles down with him as Derek kisses him again. He drinks in each one of Stiles’ panted breaths as his tongue runs along the blunt edge of Stiles’ teeth, a slow-building, steady desire bubbling in his groin when Stiles suddenly straddles him, knees pressing against the firmness of Derek’s thighs and setting everything on fire.

“That’s better,” Stiles says, cheekily, nose playfully brushing Derek’s as he wriggles around a bit, tries to adjust in a more comfortable position since his cockblocking trousers won’t let him open his legs as much as he wants. And he really, really wants to. Open them. Several times. In several different positions. He runs his tongue over his lips, licking away Derek’s taste and letting it linger in his mouth, like a precious nectar.

At that, something melts in Derek’s eyes, only to catch fire a second later. “Come here,” he rumbles, strong fingers caging Stiles’ hips, pressing into fabric and skin as Derek’s tongue follows the same path Stiles’ did a second before, leaving a wet, shiny trail of spit behind, teeth briefly catching Stiles’ bottom lips between them before releasing it.

It’s crazy, finding himself on the verge of something so big, and Stiles should probably be a bit scared by how fast this is going, by how simple it has been for them to fall into this, find each other and just take a step forward- But Derek’s chest feels solid under his palms, so real it hurts, and Derek’s hands are roaming all over Stile’s clothed back now, from neck to the base of his spine, drawing invisible lines that will slowly seep through fabric and sink into skin.

A slow build in, taking a few minutes to enjoy a closeness that has never felt so right, it’s a choice they make together, silently, riding the wave until the very last moment. And then Stiles lets himself finally fall, as Derek’s hands move, fingers unbuttoning Stiles’ shirt while Derek lands wet, open-mouthed kisses over the frail curve of Stiles’ neck, skin reddening where his teeth sink in it.

But it isn’t nearly enough and Stiles wants more, so much more. It feels like it’s burning him from the inside, ash gleaming red and bursting into flames. “Come on,” he whines, pushing his covered erection against Derek’s abdomen, breaking into a moan when, in reply, Derek only bites him harder, fingertips sneaking into Stiles’ open shirt and skidding over his nipples- Stiles shudders.

There is a large patch of dark, deliciously smooth skin half-hidden by the collar of Derek’s shirt and Stiles can’t wait until Derek will let him explore it, lap at it until the skin will be drenched with spit, can’t wait to have Derek naked and hard against him, over him, muscles swelling and shifting in his arms as they will move together, panting and shivering and- “Stop it.” It’s an order, one that Derek gives him between gritted teeth, words reverberating through Stiles like the crack of a whip. But Stiles is so hard now, can’t stop rocking his hips. He just _needs_.

And then Derek’s palms are shoving Stiles away, the pressure against his shoulders so sudden it almost makes him fall on his ass. Almost, though, because Derek catches him, fingers closing around Stiles’ biceps and steadying him. “Bedroom,” Derek murmurs, a black, velvety promise curling in the air like a lazy snake. It’s the best fucking idea Stiles has ever heard.

They stumble out of the room and down the hallway – taking only a quick pit-stop against one of the walls because, fuck, Stiles needs to kiss Derek _right now_ – and, eventually, they make it to Stiles’ bedroom door. Which is good, extremely good, because Stiles is planning for a lot of nakedness to happen in the near future.

Future that suddenly becomes present, when Derek actually unfastens Stiles’ trousers too, fingers catching in the belt loops and pushing until the fabric slides off Stiles’ hips and pools at his feet, along with Stiles’ underwear. It feels like something obscene, standing in the middle of his own bedroom, achingly hard and almost completely naked if it wasn’t for the open shirt still covering his shoulders, when Derek is still clothed, shirt barely wrinkled where Stiles’ fingers had clung on it only a few minutes before. “Shit,” Stiles grits out, his self-control long gone by now. His hand is moving before he can even think about what he’s doing, fingers closing around his dick and tugging. “Shit. _Derek_ ,” he exhales, legs trembling as he thrusts into his fist.

And that’s it, the end of whatever mind game Derek must’ve been playing until now, a wall torn to pieces by a feathery touch. Stiles watches Derek’s eyes turn red as, finally, _finally_ , Derek’s hands find Stiles’ bare skin, his perfect mouth descending over one of Stiles’ nipples and closing around him, enticing a breathy moan to escape Stiles’ throat when Derek lets the tip of his tongue trace the pink, sensitive path around it.

Stiles’ fingers come up to grab Derek’s hair, anchor himself in the only way he knows, as he lets Derek push him towards and on the bed, lets Derek’s hands run up the inside of his thighs, where firm muscles are visible under pale skin and his hair is sparsely scattered, Derek’s fingertips pressing until Stiles’ legs are splayed so – _obscenely_ – wide. Derek lands small, taunting kisses over Stiles’ calf, the tender spot behind his knee, where blood is powerfully rushing into veins, every single touch of his lips making Stiles vibrate in anticipation. A diapason in Derek’s gentle hands.

Stiles’ skin is covered in sunset-red marks, his cock leaking copiously by the time Derek’s mouth finally reaches his hole, lips pressing a soft, dry kiss against the tight ring of muscles before giving it a tentative lick. Stiles frees a whimper he hadn’t even realized he was holding and fists the sheets.

Between his legs, Derek’s hand close around one of his ankles. “Your fucking smell,” he rumbles, tongue darting out to lick a shameless, spit-slick stripe across Stiles’ twitching hole. “So good, you have no idea-” And now his fingers are skidding over where his tongue had been only a moment before, barely brushing skin before skidding over Stiles’ balls, lazily exploring as Derek takes his time to study the best way to take Stiles apart one breathy moan at time.

Feet pushing against the mattress and back arched against the sheets, by the time Derek’s tongue is in Stiles, its hot, wet pressure devouring him from the inside, he feels like begging is the only way Derek will finally let him come, will let Stiles get rid of this wave that just keeps growing and growing inside his groin, making his dick ache and his ball feel heavy- “Please,” Stiles cries, hips canting off the bed by their own volition, pushing against the hot wetness of Derek’s mouth. “Please, Derek, just- I _need_ -” He needs so much, wants Derek to take everything from him, wants to take everything from Derek.

Maybe it’s the broken note in Stiles’ voice that does it, or maybe the way his heart is beating, fast and so perfectly alive from where it’s trapped inside Stiles’ ribcage, but after a moment Derek is cursing and raising from between Stiles’ legs, furiously clawing at the fabric of his shirt, ripping it away in the haste of get naked, get closer to Stiles, to the man who’s now watching Derek with huge, deep, _trusting_ eyes- When Derek crawls again over Stiles, he’s completely naked, miles and miles of dark, toned skin that fits so perfectly against Stiles’ smaller body it’s almost a wonder.

“I want to fuck you,” Derek breathes out against the shell of Stiles’ ear, a honest, growling sound that has nothing to do with the man Stiles works with and, at the same time, represents him in each one of his dark shades, the lost, broken ones that Derek never shows but Stiles knows are there.

Stiles gasps when Derek palms his ass, grabbing and pulling at the skin until the head of Derek’s cock is sliding over Stiles’ still drenched hole. “Yeah,” he mutters. Both a permission and a request. He wants it, he wants it so much it hurts.

It doesn’t really take much before the sheets end up rumpled at the foot of the bed, an open bottle of lube abandoned on the bedside table as Derek’s fingers slide their way inside Stiles’ body. Stiles is straddling him now, eyes half-closed and lips parted, his uneven breaths landing against Derek’s neck as Derek slowly works him open.

It’s a wonder, the way Stiles’ body opens up around him, soft, so _breakable_ heat enveloping his fingers as Derek twists them to stretch Stiles, works them in and out, drenched fingertips skidding over the sensitive rim before sliding inside once again. And Derek is hard, aching to get inside Stiles, to finally take him, fuck him and _claim him_ , making sure that no one else will ever get to have him. “Christ,” he curses, reaching out with his free hand to grab a condom from the nightstand.

“I’m thinking about kittens,” Stiles replies. Which kind of surprises Derek, because _what the actual fuck?_

He though manages to get a grab on one of the few condoms scattered over the small surface, fingertips closing around the wrap as he tries not to gape. “Excuse me?” he says, fingers still buried in Stiles’ ass because of course their life is like that.

From where he’s kneeling over him, blotches of red coloring his face and his neck, Stiles grins cheekily. “It’s either kittens or coming all over you,” he tells Derek, clenching his ass around Derek fingertips because he was born a tease. “Maybe,” he continues, fluttering his eyelashes as he leans towards Derek, “I need a cock ring.”

Fuck. That’s- Fuck. The mere mental image is so devastatingly  hot that it has Derek gaping and the condom slip from his fingers, his cock twitching as he bends his fingers inside Stiles. The hitching sound he gets has Derek grinning back. “Maybe,” he growls, dangerous and beautiful all at once, “I’ll buy you one.”

And then there isn’t space for anything else beside Stiles’ mouth on Derek’s, time flowing in a different, thicker way as Derek slides the condom over himself, blinks at Stiles’ fingers smearing lube all over it as if he almost can’t believe it, can’t believe that this moment is real, that it’s Stiles the one he’s touching, the one who is slowly opening around him, enveloping Derek in warmth, softness and _want_.

Stiles’ thighs are trembling by the time he’s done impaling himself on Derek’s cock, his cheeks so red it makes Derek want to bite them, sink his teeth into flesh and just _taste_ , thick, delicious blood pooling over his tongue, Derek owning Stiles so completely-

“Holy shit. I feel so full. So good. Come on, Derek, help me here, _please_.” Stiles’ voice is like liquid, hot honey, his nails scratching Derek’s back as he rocks his hips, toes pushing against the mattress as Derek’s cock slides almost all the way out before sinking in again.

Possessiveness flames into Derek’s chest, so sudden it almost leaves him breathless. “Knew you’d be perfect like this,” he groans against Stiles’ neck, hands descending from Stiles’ hips to between the curve of his ass, fingertips pressing against where Derek’s cock keeps disappearing and pushing until Derek’s index is sliding along with it, muscles giving in so easily, as if Stiles was made for this.

“Fucking pervert,” Stiles laughs. _Laughs_. The sound of it so beautiful Derek can feel it inside his chest.

“Want you in my pack.” Innocent, whispered words that leave Derek’s lips like a petal falling from a dying flower, so easily it feels natural. Only it’s not, because Stiles knows what Derek is really asking for, knows there is a garden made of thorns and full moons behind his request. And he doesn’t want it, hasn’t wished for it not even once in his life.

So- “You already have me,” he licks his lips, lets his reply drop between them as he rocks his hips against the perfect pressure of Derek’s cock inside him, pleasure hitting him like a shot when he finally finds the right angle.

Under Stiles, Derek blinks. Something dies in his eyes. “Yeah,” he grits, fingertips finding the sharp curve of Stiles’ hips and resting there. “I do.”

Soon, Stiles’ movements become erratic, the head of his cock, drenched with pre-come, slapping against his abdomen with every thrust. It makes Derek’s mouth water as he finally takes pity on Stiles, Derek’s hands caging the side of Stiles’ chest as Derek rolls them over. Under him, Stiles’ yelps, arms and legs flailing for a second, before he gets along with the program.

“So. Much. _Better_ ,” Derek growls, using his body weight to push Stiles against the mattress, giving and taking until Stiles is finally coming, thick, long spurts landing across his chest and his neck, the smell of it clouding Derek’s head and his sight, Stiles’ crazily fast heartbeat becoming his only focus as he finds his release.

***

Stiles doesn’t remember falling asleep, though when he comes around is way past dawn, some timid sunrays poking out from between the semi-closed curtains. Yawning, he shifts under the warmness of the comforter, left hand reaching behind himself, searching for the spot behind him where Derek usually sleeps- Only to find it empty.

The feeling, Stiles knows it, it’s the same that curls around his chest when he has to tell a family that someone they loved is dead, the same that bites at his guts when they arrive too late to save a life. Bitter, acid-dangerous frustration fills him drop by drop. He already knows what he’s about to see but he still chooses to open his eyes and give a look around, looking for Derek’s trousers on the floor, his shoes abandoned half under Stiles’ bed- Nothing. Every single piece is gone, the room clearly empty aside from Stiles.

Suddenly, he feels like covering himself, his cheeks burning as the utter silence of his apartment laughs in his face. From the mirror in front of the bed Stiles can count all the red, large marks that Derek has left on his body only a few hours before, tangible lies scattered all over his skin that make him almost want to puke.

Instead, he hides his head under his pillow and chooses to pretend that he has everything he wants.

***

When Stiles wakes up again, Allison is sitting at his desk, a copy of The Art of War in her hands and a cobalt blue jacket thrown over the wooden surface. “Thought it would be best to let you sleep,” she says without raising her eyes from the page.

Rubbing his eyes, Stiles pushes himself into a sitting position, doesn’t even try to cover himself when the cotton sheets pool around his hips, leaving his bare, marked chest in sight. Something vicious is clawing at the back of his head and he lets it. Doesn’t reply because he yet has to understand why Allison is here.

That’s exactly the moment she chooses to land eyes on Stiles. “Derek called me,” it’s what she says, thought to Stiles her words make no sense. So he waits, breathing slowly. Eventually she continues. “He seemed to think you might need someone to talk to.”

Which actually makes no sense, because if Derek thought Stiles might need – want – to talk to someone, if Derek cared about Stiles even a tenth of what he usually says he does, then he would have stayed. He would have laid in bed with Stiles until dawn and maybe more, lazed in bed until hunger would have pushed them to wander into the kitchen. And maybe Stiles would have blown him there, knees hitting the floor and lips parting because that’s what he _wants_ \- “I don’t,” he says, because the rest is just never ending blankness.

Allison’s hair is tied in a French braid and it sways a bit from left to right when she turns to slip her book in a leather bag placed beside her jacket. “Maybe Lydia would be best at this,” she says, voice quiet but still clear in the silent room.

 Stiles’ breath catches. “What? No! Did you call Lydia? You didn't call her did you?” There is a pair of briefs laying on the duvet, probably because Allison put them there, and he grabs them, sliding into the fabric because he’s still lucid enough to know that Scott will behead him if Stiles doesn’t preserve Allison’ purity. Or, better, what little remains of it.

“I didn’t call her,” Allison reassures him.

From the bed, Stiles nods. “Good.” At least he doesn’t have to worry about Lydia freaking out and phoning Derek only to threaten him about the huge amount of dismemberment she will perform. On Derek’s lifeless body. Or maybe not-so-lifeless, if she really is pissed. Which is still a probability.

Derek has made himself clear enough, that’s the only thing that counts for Stiles.

“Hey,” Allison tells him, finally joining Stiles on the bed, “I won’t push you if you don’t want to-”

“Has Scott ever offered to change you?” It’s a blurted question, one that Stiles has wanted to ask her since the first time he’d realized his attraction to Derek had become something real. Only that now he realizes the words already taste _old_ on his tongue, as if he’s waited too long to voice them and they’ve started to rot in the meantime.

From where she’s sitting at the foot of the bed, Allison opens her mouth to reply. Stiles precedes her. “I know that Chris would feed Scott his own balls if he knew but- Did you ever talk about that?”

Something in Allison’s eyes softens, her fingers twitching against the comforter. “I don't think I'm the best person who can give you advice about this.” She's being cautious, Stiles can read it all over the pursed curve of her lower lip, the way her spine is set straight.

He doesn’t need cautious. He doesn’t want it. So he’s the one who throws discretion into the fire, feels it burn under his skin as he speaks. “Because Derek and I did. Fuck everything, there is no point in hiding. We did and I must have given him the wrong answer, because he- He-” But words won’t come, and he finds himself incapable of continuing. He feels so bare and dirty and used, had promised to himself that he would never feel like the small, shy kid he once had been and now he's back to the start.

Allison looks at him with big, sad eyes. But there is no pity in them, only a limitless love, the love of the _pack_ , that everything can soothe and wrap in warmness, a love that heals what’s broken. “Oh Stiles,” she says, thinks better of touching him because she knows Stiles doesn’t wish to be touched right now. “You know what, I'll make some coffee. Why don't you go shower in the meantime?”

She slips out of the room with the same soundless grace she’s arrived, leaving the door ajar behind her. Stiles waits until he hears her moving around in the kitchen before slipping out of bed, grabbing some clean clothes on his way to the bathroom.

The light green tiles are cold under his feet when Stiles pads on them, doesn’t even bother to lock the door because, thank luck, Jackson isn’t around to sneak on him when Stiles least expects it. The idea feels both comforting and oddly sad at the same time.

It isn’t until he’s standing naked under the shower spray that Stiles allows his frustration to run free down his cheeks in bitter, fat tears, his hands remaining fisted at his sides for the time it takes to his messy sobs to subside into a more restrained crying. He’s done hoping.

When he steps into the kitchen Allison is sitting on a stool, two cups of steaming coffee placed on the counter in front of her. Stiles slides easily onto the stool beside her, smiles when she offers him the red one with the chipped handle, the only one he brought with him from his dad’s home because it reminded him of his mom.

The clock’s slow, rhythmical ticking marks the passing of the seconds as they sip their coffees in silence. After a while, thought, Allison inhales. “I won't ask you anything” she says, voice so gentle it feels like a feather caressing the sharp edge of a sword, “but I will tell you something.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “Not really in the mood for a morale.”

Allison simply ignores him. “Sometimes Scott wakes me up during the night,” confessions, Stiles could deal with these. “He asks me to talk to him, let him in my mind while I'm still in that delicate place between sleep and conscience-” Or maybe he couldn’t, seeing as they are trespassing into TMI territory here. Too much information being the main title of the scene. But of course Allison goes on as if nothing. “A wolf needs to _feel_. They already are very social animals by definition and this instinct only gets stronger when it comes to their lovers.” A pause. “I can't know how this translates to an Alpha but I have a pretty good idea.”

“Lovers,” Stiles stutters. “That not-” But he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even think he wants to say something as Allison’s words slowly sink into him, like something too heavy to stay afloat and be carried away by the currents.

Placing her cup over the marble counter with a dull thud, Allison smiles at him. “I know,” she says, and the most disconcerting thing is that Stiles knows that she really _does_. “Just think about it.”

It’s then, when Stiles is still deciding if he wants to say something, maybe spill everything or maybe ask her a hug, that Stiles’ phone starts ringing, Nick’s number blinking at him from the display.

“Shit,” he spits, his mind instantly switching back to the still whole place where Stiles is a FBI profiler. He waves an apology to Allison as he takes the call. She takes another sip of her coffee, unimpressed.

“Stiles?” Nick’s voice calls from the other end of the line.

“Nick,” Stiles replies, trying to work out from the other man’s voice if something is wrong. “I wasn’t expecting your call.”

It’s true. Stiles has given Nick his number the first day he’s set foot into The Octagon but Nick has never used it before. Somehow, without any logical reason, this sends a shiver run down Stiles’ spine.

“I know,” Nick says, voice calm. “Sorry about it. I just needed to talk to you about something.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” a hesitation, buying time either to think or to- “There is some footage I think you should see. Remember that girl that got killed a few days ago? I might have found-”

But Stiles is already up at that, gesturing at Allison that he needs to go because _important_. “Are you at The Octagon?” he asks Nick as he grabs his Jeep’s keys.

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll see you in twenty.” He hangs up while he jogs down the stairs, thoughts and energies suddenly entirely focused on this new occasion. He doesn’t even think about calling Derek  to let him know he’s going to meet with Nick. If a surveillance tape can help delay the talk they necessarily – and inevitably - are going to have, then Stiles is going to seize this chance.

Of course, to further underline the fact that Stiles is a moron and his life is only a long series of bad choices, there is a strange, funny-scented fog waiting for him when he gets to the club and Nick is nowhere to be seen. It only takes two steps and a sudden dizziness before Stiles understands what’s happening. “Fuck my life,” he has barely the time to murmur before dropping to the ground.

***

The first thing that Stiles notices when he comes around again is that his wrists and ankles are tightly bound and that his head is pounding. Yay fucking yay.

Obviously, he’s been kidnapped. He doesn’t know whether to be thankful or not for the fact that no one has impaled him on a pointy, sharpy something. Yet. Which is why he chooses to postpone whichever celebration to until after he’ll walk out of this situation. Possibly still whole, since he doesn’t really like to lose pieces of himself. He’s quite attached to his body, thank you very much.

Keeping his eyes closed, Stiles chooses not to whip himself too hard about the fact that he’s been completely and utterly irresponsible, putting himself in a dangerous position that will most probably result with someone getting hurt. Hopefully not him if he manages to have a say in it. Still, he feels anger towards himself bubble at the mouth of his stomach, along with something else that resembles disgust. Scratch that, it definitely is disgust, he realizes, as something else starts to make its way inside Stiles’ head. Then, a distinct stench of decomposition hits Stiles’ nostrils like a punch in the face, making him nauseous.

The cold concrete under his cheek does nothing to distract Stiles from the fetid smell and it seems like he’s alone, judging by the silence that surrounds him, so, after another minute, he dares to open his eyes, blinking a few times to readjust to the dim light of the room. Once he locates the source of the smell, thought, the need to throw up becomes immediate.

Sitting on the ground at an angle, still dressed with what look like woman’s clothes, there is a rotting corpse, head abandoned against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut. It’s grotesque, so different from any crime scene Stiles has ever seen in his short carrier that, for a moment, the crazy desire to observe it hits him. But he swallows it down quickly, pushes himself into thinking as he scans the entire room. Eyes roaming over every single wall and taking in nothing more than some sick pictures of the cadaver in its previous states of decomposition.

By the time Nick walks into the room, Stiles has already worked out the fact that the other man hasn’t been armed, but it’s nice anyway to see his suspicions confirmed. Too bad he’s having them when they really don’t matter anymore. “Sorry about the headache, the Anise mist tends to do that,” Nick says, amiably, as if he isn’t the one who has Stiles tied and captive in a room together with a smelly corpse.

He blinks, tries to fight the urge to roll on his back because usually killers like Nick are triggered by challenges, and Stiles already knows he’s someone who likes to show himself, has studied him and his work for too many months to be careless about it.

“Are you thirsty?” Nick continues, smiling in the same way he had done many other times in his club. “I have water. I could give it to you, but I still don’t know if you deserve it,” he concludes in a conspiratorial way, winking at Stiles, almost as if that’s a secret that needs to stay between them.

Biting his tongue, Stiles refrains himself from pointing out that the dead body might be listening in on them.

That strange monologue goes on for a few minutes longer, Nick talking openly to Stiles, looking almost friendly in his relaxed demeanor, but Stiles guards himself from replying to any of his questions, keeps his mouth shut and his cheek pressed against the concrete floor, eyes barely able to reach Nick’s face from where he’s lying. Nick doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s silent, though, seems instead pretty happy to have someone to listens to him.

“-you should respect it. I mean, my mom always did.” That’s when a warning bell starts ringing into Stiles’ head, red lights signaling him that he needs to pay attention to what it’s about to come. In fact, Nick continues: “My mom always used to play with me, you know?” he says, eyes caressing the corpse sitting on the floor with an affect that has Stiles’ stomach twist with disgust, makes him taste bile over his tongue. “She used to say that I was her doll, her precious, beautiful doll.”

Between one careful breath and the other, Stiles is just about to brace himself for a Great Wall of China-long declaration of love – subtitle: from your serial-killer son to your actually dead heart – but Nick’s words take him aback once again. “I hated her. I hated her and loved her and I wanted her dead,” he spits, rocks onto his feet and hugs himself like a lost, crazy kid. “And when I asked her if I could have my own doll she denied me. And then she punished me, said it was because I’d been a bad boy and I needed to learn my lesson- But I wanted one of my own!” A whine, a sick, high sound that makes Stiles’ blood pump faster in his veins. _Here we go_.

Growing agitated, Nick starts pacing the room, his hands slashing the air as he gestures. “Girls are so beautiful. And I’m beautiful too, I know it, my mom always told me that. So why wouldn’t they let me play with them? Why wouldn’t they smile?” There is a hint of genuine surprise in his last, delirious words, almost as if he really is baffled, can’t understand why the young girls he murdered wouldn’t want to spend their time with a killer who had a hugeass mommy issue.

Nick is breathing heavily now, his eyes glinting with a new light that Stiles doesn’t like even one bit. He tugs at the cord tying his wrist and swallows, trying to think, to close outside the foul, morbid stench of decomposition that’s filling the room. But Nicks eyes land on him now, suddenly focused and intent, as if he’s pondering something, maybe Stiles himself. It makes fear bubble in Stiles’ stomach for the first time since he’s woken up in this room.

“But you will play with me, won’t you?” Nick – the killer, Stiles can see him surfacing now – tells him, a wild smile twisting his features, depriving him of that defenseless nature that had had Stiles fooled, had made him lower his defenses  just that little bit enough to become prey.

Only he’s not a prey, has been taught not to be even when numbers aren’t in his favor, even when a situation seem to be too desperate to see any light, Stiles has been taught to _fight back_. Also, he was already generally pissed for obvious reasons, so Nick’s exploit doesn’t really help to improve his mood. “Sure, I will,” he smiles kindly, pressing his shoulder against the floor so he can turn to watch Nick directly in his eyes. “Once you’ll be lying in the morgue. Then I’ll help our coroner cutting your head open and study every single inch of your sick brain. How do you like this game?”

From where he is standing, old wooden floor creaking under his shoes, Nick whines like a wounded animal, taking a step back. “You-” he mouths, eyes still on Stiles.

But Stiles doesn’t let him talk, _can’t_ let him talk, because this is an occasion he can’t miss, not when Nick’s emotions are so unbalanced, still unsure about which one is the right path to follow. “ _You_ are a sick, little man who murdered his mom and then tried to restore his inner equilibrium by murdering even more people. No one will ever love something like you. You are just a freak-” he stops when the clear glint of a blade slides out of one of Nick’s pockets, his blood running cold because _of course_. Instead of wounding him, pushing him into breaking, Stiles’ words have only managed to make Nick furious.

Transparent tears are running down the killer’s face now. “You don’t understand!” It’s a harsh sound that echoes throughout the room, vowels hitting the walls like bullets and bouncing back at them. “My inner trigrams- Lives had had to be sacrificed to restore my equilibrium, to make my Octagon whole again.”

Trigrams. Octagon. These words start spinning into Stiles’ head like sharks circling a seal, working their way into their prey’s head even before than its body. _Bagua_ , his mind supplies him, that’s what the murders were about, that’s what Nick’s mom was. A witch who followed the Bagua dictates, lived and respected the eight basic elements constituting the world.

And that’s what the murders were about too, each one of the girls surely sacrificed in a way that would bring back to one of the elements – thunder, fire, water- How many Stiles, _how many?_ – and that would only increase Nick’s magical power and the danger he represents. This man needs to be stopped.

But maybe Stiles should worry about himself, first, seeing as Nick walks to where he is laying on the ground, fingers clenching Stiles’ shirt as Nick drags him into a sitting position. “I’ll make you understand, now,” the killer says. Stiles swallows and tries not to blink.

The sharp, metal edge of the knife cuts into the soft flesh of Stiles’ thigh with white, blinding clarity, his teeth gritting at the sudden pain as his jeans become quickly soaked in blood. Stiles’ head starts spinning with the quite clear certainty that he’s going to die in here.

From where he’s now kneeling in front of Stiles, eyes at the same level with him, Nick takes the knife to his lips, slowly licking it clean of Stiles’ blood. “You taste so much better than those-” he stops, glances at the corner where his mother’s body is laying, empty, rotting orbital fissures staring right back at them. “- those _bitches_ ,” he says, almost triumphant.

One word, that’s all it takes to Stiles to understand that Nick has just evolved to something else, a way more dangerous individual that has dared to overcome his mother’s authority – not out of survival instinct, but willingly – and has understood that he can do it without any repercussions. Free.

A new, determined frown curves Nick’s eyebrows and viscid, tense fear starts spiraling inside Stiles’ stomach. He meets the killer’s hungry eyes under half-lowered eyelids, tries to make himself looks smaller, like he doesn’t hold any threat against him. _Let sleeping dogs lie_ Derek’s voice whispers in his head, and Stiles would be probably laughing at the general hilarity of the situation if he wasn’t, like, quite busy being held hostage by a psychopathic serial killer right now.

“You know,” Nick tells him, sucking a drop of blood from the tip of his thumb, “after the night you were assaulted-” Stiles starts at that, his eyes widening as he realizes who attacked him. “Oh, yes, I like the look in your eyes. Of course it was me, you are so pretty when you bleed.” He smiles a dirty smile. “Anyway, while you were recovering your friend Scott came to the club. He almost got me, the little mischievous wolf. I had to,” he raises one eyebrow, “correct one of his drinks, numb that damn werewolf sense of smell of his.” And he’s bringing a finger to his mouth, winking at Stiles as if that’s their little, precious secret.

 _The stench of death follows him_ , the memory of Derek’s words hit Stiles straight in the middle of his chest, making his breath falter. He’d been so blind, so fucking blind, not seeing what was right under his nose. And now he’s going to pay his error with his life, will be unable to stop this bastard from laying his hands on more innocent girls- This is going to kill his dad. Is going to kill Derek.

***

Despite his own silent nature, Derek has never really liked movie theaters. He’s seen too many bad things happen in the dark to be wanting to sit in a darkened room for hours, not counting the fact that the amplified sound coming out of the speakers hurts his sensitive ears, eardrums vibrating so hard it makes pain flare behind his eyes.

He is more like a movie night-kind of man, the one who takes up half of the couch but still lets Stiles curl against his side and Isaac rest his head over his knees, the kind of man who enjoys to bask in the contentedness of his pack’s happy chattering even if he doesn’t understand half of the movie, because spending some time together is what really matters. So, no, Derek doesn’t really like movie theaters. And he likes them even less now that their next victim has been found in it.

“Her brain has been literally slow-cooked,” Lydia is saying, cream-colored trousers creating a sharp contrast with the purple of the seats where she’s leaning over the dead girl. “Look here,” she tells Danny, gloved fingers pointing at some small, dark-red patches over the victim’s sternum. “These are electricity-induced burns, he must have let the amperage grow little by little, taking his time as he fried her to death.”

Danny makes a face like he’s just swallowed something that tasted foul, but nods, takes a few more close-ups of the burns scattered all over the girl’s body. Over her neck and her chest, down to her bare arms and- “What’s that?” he stops, lowering his camera to get a good look at the little something that’s pocking out of one of the victim’s pockets.

Lydia is quickly beside him, long hair curtaining the sides of her face as he leans towards the girl. “Looks like a USB key,” she murmurs. That’s strange, it’s the first time they find something else beside the victim’s clothes. And, strangely, it doesn’t look like a casualty at all. “Get Derek,” Lydia tells Danny, picks up the key with the same care she’d use if it was a bomb about to go off.

It doesn’t take much before Danny and Derek come back armed with a laptop. Scott is right behind them, an empty plastic bag in his hands. “The security guard says that no one has touched her,” he says while Danny places the laptop on one of the purple chairs, opening it. “So whatever that is, it was in her pockets since her body was left here.”

“Let’s see what’s on it,” Derek supplies, taking the USB key that Lydia is handing him and plugging it.

Over the portable drive there is only one video file. “Surprise.avi,” Danny reads aloud, clicking on it at the same time as he says: “I don’t know why but I don’t like this at all.”

Then, as the video starts playing on the screen, quality quite clear despite the fact that it’s been clearly taped during night, each one of them freezes, blood running cold in their veins as the night Stiles was stabbed plays in front of their eyes.

The food flying everywhere, Stiles putting up a fight despite having been taken by surprise, the knife sinking in him as easily as if Stiles were made of butter- Derek’s fangs are completely out by the time the video ends, his lips bleeding where they’ve cut into skin. This is both a challenge and a threat, the killer claiming his own crime and hinting that it might happen again, that you never know when someone might be lurking from behind a corner, a weapon in his hand as he waits for the right moment to take down the weakest link of the chain. The human of the pack.

A roaring sound starts bubbling in Derek’s chest, pushing and clawing at the inside of hit throat to break free, the immediate need to run back to Stiles, back to where he left him asleep and _safe_ only a few hours before powerfully hitting him. “Call Stiles,” he instead tells Scott, claws slowly retreating into skin as he tries to get a hold of himself.

Only that Stiles doesn’t pick up Scott’s call. Nor Danny’s. Or Lydia’s. He isn’t either replying to any of their texts the rest of them send him.

Panic starts to make way into Derek’s head, ribcage suddenly shrinking around his heart, suffocating it in a deathly grip. Everything becomes red as the only thought in his head becomes the memory of Stiles’ lips on his, Stiles’ nails scratching his back as Derek drove himself into his body- Stiles is in danger and Derek is just _this close_ to wolfing out on the spot, throw everything to the wind because the Alpha’s need to protect – to kill – is howling powerfully inside him.

“Were you able to get a hold of him?” he hears Scott asks Boyd.

And then, just as Boyd is telling him that no, he didn’t, and maybe they should send someone to see if- “Call Allison,” Derek says, voice still not perfectly human but almost back to its usual tone.

In the blink of an eye, Scott’s focus is back on Derek. “Allison?” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Why would we need to call her?” And, when Derek doesn’t reply- “What do you know that I don’t? Why Allison?” his hand shots up to grab Derek’s arm, ranks forgotten as Scott starts to panic. “Is she okay?” Scott needs to know, needs to be informed if Derek thinks something might have happened to Allison, if she might be in danger-

“Yeah,” Derek murmurs, shrugging Scott’s hand off, “she’s okay. Just call her.”

When, after a minute, Allison picks up the phone, Derek doesn’t even give Scott the time to speak, taking the phone from his hand. “Allison, it’s Derek,” he says. “I need you to tell me if you saw Stiles this morning.” Straight to the point.

“Derek?” Allison seems surprised to be hearing from him for the second time in a day. “Yeah, of course I went to see him this morning,” she replies, though, doesn’t miss a beat because she has always been a smart woman. “Why are you calling me with Scott’s phone? Are you guys okay?”

But Derek hasn’t time for any other questions but his. “What time did you leave his apartment?” he asks, ignores the surprised expression depicting itself all over Scott’s face. He doesn’t have time to appreciate Allison’s discretion right now, but he makes a mental note of remembering it later, once they will understand what the fuck is going on.

Allison sounds cautious when she speaks again. “He left around eleven am, I believe. I stayed another-”

What. “He left,” Derek interrupts her, growling.

“Yes, someone called him on his phone and he fled so quickly you’d think they were offering him money.” A pause. “I think he said- Uhm, Nick? I’m pretty sure Nick is the one.”

Derek’s heart skips a beat. Beside him, Scott and Boyd’s eyes widen in the same surprised, frightened way.

***

“You’ll make such a pretty slave once I’ll be done with you,” Nick giggles, clapping his hands as if he can’t wait, as if what he’s been doing to Stiles for the past hours is just the entrée and the main course has yet to come.

Stiles is bleeding from numerous cuts now, blood sluggishly oozing from the wounds that Nick has inflicted on him. “Yeah,” Stiles nods at him, moving his arm so he can give the killer further access to his skin. A crazy, reckless plan starts to take shape in his mind, his only choice seeing as his strength is slowly abandoning him, dripping away with every second.

Nick’s fingers close around his wrist. “You like this too, don’t you?” he beams, a maniac look in his eyes as he admires his work over Stiles’ skin. “Knew you’d been made for this.” And the words are so wrong, sound so filthy coming from his mouth that the urge of spitting in his face hits Stiles like an arrow, sharp and painful and sleek.

Instead, he chooses to play another game. “You want to really mark me? Then you should choose somewhere where the skin is thin, where the scar will last.” Silky, gentle words, barely whispered because he knows Nick can hear him perfectly well. It’s the most dangerous thing he could think of and, yet, it’s his only option.

In front of him, Nick lets the knife dangle from left to right, fingertips closed around the pointed tip as he considers Stiles’ suggestion. “Marking you, hm?” he mutters, thumb skidding over the delicate place of Stiles’ wrist where veins are easily visible, a blue net barely hidden under skin.

And then Stiles sees him make his decision, as the blade shines in the dim light of the room, Nick’s fingers gripping his forearm to keep Stiles from moving. When the skin gives in under the metal, Nick smiles, pleased. “This might be better than I’d thought.” Stiles closes his eyes and tries not to cry in agony.

It isn’t after another ten minutes later that Nick finally leaves him alone, walking out of the room with the promise of coming back soon with some water for Stiles. “You’ve been such a good boy,” he tells him, tongue lapping at one of Stiles’ still bleeding cuts before getting up from the floor.

Once he’s gone, door closing behind him with a soft, clear click, Stiles doesn’t lose time, wriggling and rotating his arm until his palms are touching. He rubs his left palm over the back of his shirt, trying to get it clean as much as possible for his purpose.

Runes aren’t something people should play with, Stiles has learnt the concept at his expense, almost loosing an eye during one of his experiments. But there are times when they become the only way, times when their power is the sole thing that might help you, the power-made light that will guide you somewhere safe. And Stiles needs a guide right now, not for himself, but for the people out there who love him, for the people who possess the power of dragging him out of this mess.

The Naudiz rune is an easy one to trace, consists in only two lines crossing themselves, but the blood is a fundamental component in it and Stiles has to make sure that he uses the right quantity, finger trembling as he draws two lines over his left palm, concentrating on the only person he knows can help him right now. He closes his eyes, and lets magic rush trough him.

***

Lydia enters the open space just as Richardson literally flees out of Derek’s office, Erica marching straight out of it right after him with the air of someone who’s just about to go on a killing spree. Or maybe do something stupid. After all, there really isn’t much difference between the two things.

Scoot is bent over a desk with Isaac and Jackson, tracing red lines over a map of the city as they follow a specific method and proceed to eliminate entire zones. Neither of them raise their head from what they are doing when Lydia enters the room but she’s more than okay with not being noticed for once in her life. “Is Chris in there with Derek?” she asks Erica once they come face to face, earrings tinkling as Lydia passes a hand through her hair.

Erica drops a stack of photos over Jackson’s desk. “Yeah,” she says, something dark and _furious_ rumbling alongside her words. “We were just about to-”

But she doesn’t have the time to finish before Derek is stalking out of his office, door slamming against the wall as he opens it. “Everyone get in here!” he calls, the look of someone who is working at twice his capacity.

To be honest, Derek is terrified. Stiles has been missing for five hours by now and, staying to the video message the killer left for them, he could already be dead or, worse, could be screaming in pain as heated needles penetrate his flesh, or electricity runs through his body, slowly cooking him from the inside. And Derek can’t help but blame himself, regrets the moment he chose to leave Stiles alone in his bed, the moment he took the decision away from his mind because Derek knew he could never have Stiles the way he wanted him, could never turn him and _own_ him- “Chris has assured me that his team will cooperate with us,” he hears himself say, words flowing in the air like a river falling from the side of a mountain, sudden and fearless and _loud_.

There is so much to do and so little time at their disposition. Kidnapping cases are usually handled with great carefulness, every option considered attentively before getting discarded, time used parsimoniously because with every lost hour might be the last one for their hostage- But this is a FBI agent they are talking about. Agent Stiles Stilinski isn’t just a normal person, only a face among many others. No. Stiles is a precious colleague for many of the FBI agent working with him and a dear friend for the ones in his team. Stiles is _pack_. And there is no way they will let him die, no way they will leave him behind.

Perched over a desk, legs crossed as she listens to what Derek and Chris have to say, Lydia is in the middle of noting down the orders she’s been given when a strange, uneasy sensation starts trickling right under her skin. She’s barely the time to blink, lashes brushing against rose-colored cheeks, before Stiles’ name smacks her in the chest with the clarity of a cannon shot, everything else shrinking to a zero and becoming unimportant as a series of blurry, dark images drips into her mind.

Her breath falters. “Stiles,” she mouths, eyes wide open as the notepad slips from her hand and falls to the ground. “Stiles,” she repeats, steadier, as everyone else in the room goes silent.

Derek is beside her in the span of a second, eyes glowing as he studies Lydia’s face as if it’s the first time he’s seen her. “What,” he says, hands reaching to clutch Lydia’ shoulders, keep both of them steady. “What did you see.”

Stiles’ magic energy is still running under Lydia’ skin like the memory of a scent, so pale and yet so strong, almost as if the spark is just about to come alive again. “I know where he is,” she says, pure instinct pushing her to talk as the rational part of her spirit remains silent, waiting. And then, her lips curl into a feral smile- “Bring the big guns.” Electricity runs though her with the same, dangerous intensity of a thunder.

From where he’s gripping her shoulders, Derek feels the red bleed around his eyes, feels the heaviness of his fangs where they suddenly start pressing against his tongue, as the wolf finally takes over.

They are gonna get Stiles back.

***

Torn, yellow-old wallpaper, dusty floors and dirty windows, the house where Nick has brought Stiles looks ancient in each one of its little details. It’s like the Addams Family’s favorite interior decorator  had fun working on it, spreading spiders like flowers in a field and using a hammer to open gaping holes in some of the walls. Seriously, a work of art. If it wasn’t for the stench of mold and, like, eau-de-dead.

Still, Stiles doesn’t mind the general creepiness of the place as long as Nick keeps spilling information about it, from the location of  the building to the origins of his family. “It’s my dad’s house,” Nick explains chattily, as if him and Stiles are having an affable conversation in front of a nice cup of tea instead of staring at how easily the knife cuts into the tender flesh of Stiles’ belly. “It won’t scar, I promise.”

Jaw clenched to shut off the pain, Stiles almost prefers it would, as long as that meant that he's going to miss what happens after the torture part. He says nothing though, barely blinks when Nick’s index finger caressed him from sternum to navel, nails catching against the edges of Stiles’ open wounds and setting Stiles’ skin on fire. _Sadistic bastard_.

The only thing that’s helping Stiles through this all is the certainty that Lydia has gotten his message, has felt Stiles’ energy touch her. He knows she did, because the Naudiz rune works both ways, an open channel that can be used to share powers, and Stiles has felt some of Lydia’s vital energy caress him with the same gentleness of a loving hand, an almost casual exchange since Lydia has always refused to learn how magic works. Still, a humans nature is so complicated, so full of mysteries that sometimes everything comes down to their more inner instincts.

That’s the same reason why Stiles knows that the house is protected by some powerful, old charms, can feel them crackling into the air, feeding on Nick’s manic excitement and Stiles’ fear. A darkness that’s clinging to his back, extending its claws and waiting for the best moment to strike, for the moment when Stiles’ copious loss of blood will inevitably result into him giving up, closing his eyes because, stop, he can’t take it anymore- Only this is not the time.

“The rest of my mom’s family lives in Europe,” Nick is saying, fingertips tapping an unmelodic tune against the dirty floor as he speaks. “Maybe I could bring you there-” The house rattles around them, the rest of his words swallowed by the loud explosion coming from outside.

Fucking hell, why can’t Derek walk into places like normal people instead of razing everything to the ground Hulk-style? But then Stiles gets a good look at Nick’s stunned face, the way his mouth has dropped open and his eyebrows are wavering, torn between frowning and arching, and he hopes that Boyd will have another occasion to play with his toys. Who is he kidding, he wouldn’t mind to shove a dynamite stick down Nick’s throat himself.

Too bad that bombs won’t do anything against the charm protecting the house, and both Stiles and his kidnapper know this even too well. “Seems like the cavalry is here,” Nick winks at Stiles, emotions back in control as he pulls himself up to his feet, leaving Stiles to sit on the ground.

He doesn’t look worried, which Stiles considers as a good thing, seeing as the non-worried killer status grants him that he’s not going to get murdered in an imminent future. After all, a man’s joy is made of little things.

White, blinding bright light makes its way through the dirt covering the windows and a howl resonates into the air. Stiles would recognize it among a thousand others, the howl of an Alpha who has been deprived of a member of his pack and now is out seeking revenge, a terrifying sound that promises death and sufferance to whoever will dare to step on the Wolf’s way. “Derek,” Stiles mutters, a weight he didn’t know was there lifting from his chest as the air leaves his lungs.

“So that’s the game he wants to play, hm?” Nick says from the other side of the room, his knife suddenly resurfacing from the cloth he’d wrapped it in only a handful of minutes before. This time, the step he takes towards Stiles screams malicious intent and murder from a mile. “Let’s see how he’ll like your head when it won’t be attached to your body anymore.”

And now there is some serious beheading talking going on, isn’t it just _fabulous_?

This time, Nick doesn’t even bother to be cautious, counts on the fact of Stiles being too weak to fight back as he grabs his hair, bending Stiles’ head back and baring his neck as the blade shines for the last time- Stiles moves quickly, throwing his full body weight back as he pushes both his feet up to collide with Nick’s chest. The blow hits the man so well it sends him staggering almost to the other side of the small room, eyes widening in surprise as the grip around the knife’s handle goes slack.

“Little bitch,” he’s barely the time to spit at Stiles before Derek is barging into the room, features twisted into a wild, yet familiar, expression and one of the wooden doors goes crashing out of the window in a symphony of broken glasses and white-painted splinters. Property damage, Derek has a worrying propensity for it, especially when the safety of someone on his team is in danger.

In the next second, Stiles expects to see Derek throw himself at Nick like a piece of iron to a calamite but, truth be told, nothing of that sort happens. In fact, Derek just stays where he is, at the edge of the room, and paces from left to right, as if trying to find his way through- “Mountain ash,” Nick says, a smug, nasty grin curling his lips. “Pretty handy, don’t you think?” He’s openly mocking Derek now, fingers bending in a claw-shape way.

A growl rolls at the back of Derek’s throat. “Give. Him. _Back_.” He’s not looking at Stiles but he can smell the blood anyway, could describe each one of Stiles’ wounds even if he hasn’t seen them. Is refusing to.

In reply, Nick only breaks into a laugh. “I don’t think I will,” he sing-songs, eyes glinting maliciously as he takes a few steps towards Derek, challenges the Alpha so openly it almost make Stiles want to facepalm. “Instead, what I’m going to do is let you watch as I skin him alive. He’s so pretty when he bleeds, you have no idea.”

Derek’s roar makes the house shake. Literally. Stiles would swear he can see dust fluttering down from the ceiling if he wasn’t, like, a bit busy with trying not to faint.

“Oh, the wolf cares?” Nick cocks his head to the side, delighted. “How _cute_.”

There isn’t any trace of the relaxed, openly smiling man that Stiles has known in him anymore, everything has been swallowed by this poisonous, moldy black that won’t let the light filter in ever again, will create an airless cocoon that will sooner or later devour Nick’s mind as hate has already done with his heart. Stiles can see it clearly.

“But you can’t save him, Agent Derek Hale,” Nick continues, gesturing at Stiles with the tip of his knife. “Yes, look at me. I know you. I know all of you and no one of your lame werewolf team will be able to stop me.”

Just then, like the opening of a weird theatrical act, Chris’ calm voice fills the air with the same welcomed clarity of a spring of water blossoming in the middle of a desert. “ _Jesus_ , would you please just shut your mouth?”

Obviously Chris Argent is the most badass human being to ever have landed foot on heart, because he doesn’t even try to break the circle, doesn’t even bother to take a step into it. Oh, no, what he does instead is shooting what looks like a harpoon straight to the right of Nick’s chest, metal sinking into the killer’s body with an almost astonishing easiness, taking him so aback that Nick has barely the time to gurgle in pain when the weapon breaches him, passing him from front to back.

There is a crazy, crystal clear moment of stillness in which neither of them, not even Derek, dares to even breathe, and then Chris’ thumb is pulling a lever and basically throwing Nick’s raw meat at Derek, doesn’t even pretend to try and save the man’s life since the harpoon surely hasn’t wounded him mortally.

For the first time in hours, that’s the moment Stiles chooses to close his eyes. Though he hears anyway the sound of Nick’s neck snapping like a branch under a shoe, adrenaline amplifying his senses when Stiles really doesn’t need it anymore.

After Deaton, Chris’ coroner, takes care of the circle – which Stiles knows means he’s had to use Nick’s hand. His very dead hand –, breaking it in the proper way, the sound of heels against the wood pushes Stiles into opening his eyes. “I’m so fucking going to kill you,” Lydia tells him. But her hands are trembling and way too gentle as she unties the rope around Stiles’ wrists.

“Good to see you too.” Stiles is so tired that his reply comes out as a whisper. He doesn’t even have the energy to smile but hopes anyway that Lydia will appreciate the effort he puts into trying.

In reply he probably gets a chocked sob, though he isn’t sure because Jackson and Isaac are suddenly there to his side, heads held up and jaws clenched, their careful hands helping Stiles onto his feet and out of the house.

On their way to the ambulance Stiles notices that there are two black body bags near the front door and neither Chris nor Derek are in sight. The early afternoon light nearly blinds Stiles as he steps outside the old house.

***

For the second time in less than a month, Stiles finds himself with a categorical order to stay away from work from the hospital’s doctor – to be honest, Stiles suspects she’s grown quite fond of him – and a houseful of werewolves and humans – who seem to have grown quite fond of occupying his bed, what the hell –. Only this time Derek isn’t part of the equation.

If he wanted to be fair, Stiles should say that they are both avoiding the other, what with Derek not coming over and Stiles refusing to contact him in any way, from texts to carrier pigeons. But, since he’s allowed to be a brat because a crazy killer has almost chopped him to death like a garlic clove, his story is that Derek is having lots of very manly, very emotional issues and so is keeping away. Sticking to it, he’s doing it.

Besides, everyone of the pack is always around and it isn’t like Stiles has the time to feel lonely or abandoned, not even at night, seeing as Isaac and Erica have officially take residence in his bed. Not counting, of course, the times when Stiles wakes up only to find Boyd sprawled all over them, Danny curled on top of the puppy pile because that’s how they roll.

The hardest one to handle has been Lydia, though. She has been a touchy bitch for days when Stiles was still hospitalized, stitches pulling at his skin where the doctor had sewed him back together. “I’m moving to Canada,” she had told him one afternoon, a copy of a medical magazine laying open over her lap. “I’ll get a house near a freaking lake and get friendly with a moose or something. The level of stupidity in our apartment is starting to affect me.” And then she had cried and punched Stiles’ shoulder. Because they both knew that Lydia wasn’t capable of leaving, wouldn’t even want to.

Everyone, from Jackson, to Scott – all the tears. Seriously, all of them and _even more_ – and Allison find a way to express their feelings to Stiles, someone by buying him food and others by sticking name’s tags on each one of Stiles’ boxer briefs. Thing is that the love comes through and that’s what really matters.

Eventually, after a few weeks of rest, Stiles comes back to work and life starts flowing as always, as if it never stopped. Work, Lydia, the pack, Derek – even if something seems to be irreparably broken –, Stiles tries to make it work once again.

And yet there is something that keeps pulling at the back of his head, keeping him awake when he’s laying in bed and, sometimes, distracting him when he’s sitting at his desk. The memory of Derek’s naked body, the certainty of how well they fit, not only in life but also in bed, Stiles can’t seem to stop thinking about it, isn’t sure he even wants to.

Soon, before Stiles can even realize it, the 29th of February comes by and with it Danny’s birthday, which is as good as any other occasion to celebrate. So Allison drags the whole team to a club owned by one of her high-school friends and tells Stiles to have fun for once in his life. “You’ve become a boring, old man,” she jokes, giggling in Stiles’ ear before turning to take her order from Scott’s hands.

Stiles watches the beer slosh inside the glass, gaping because- “That’s not true!”

From where he’s sitting beside him, Boyd coughs in a very telling way. The traitor. Stiles stabs him with one of the plastic forks because he knows how to recognize a mutiny when he sees one.

“Heartless man,” Boyd grins at him, stealing a French fry from Stiles’ plate because he’s a cheeky werewolf who knows no fear.

Stiles grins back, leaning his head against the booth and taking a look around at his family, eyes flying from where Isaac is laughing at something Danny has just said to where Derek’s lips are curled in an almost paternal smile. _Family_. He’s ready to call them like that now, is ready to admit that, in their dysfunctional way, they have become irreplaceable to him. “Old,” he muses between himself. “I’ll show you old.”

Of course, it isn’t Stiles the one who drags Erica and Lydia to the middle of the dance floor, nor is him the one who starts dancing to the rhythm of the music, hips moving along with the girls’ as he lets every worry, every uncertainty flow out of him, replaces them with his friends’ wide smiles and the willingness of not remaining anchored to a memory that has no reason to exist.

So, when a guy starts to circle Stiles, dancing around him and swaying his hips in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination of what his intentions might be, he finally, for the first time in years, lets go. After all, why should he deny himself when Derek has made clear that he doesn’t want Stiles. That Stiles is not enough for him. Plus the guy’s hands feel good around Stiles’ hips, like something that couldn’t ever wound him because _he won’t allow them to_. It’s easy and thrilling and relaxing altogether-

And then it’s over, when a familiar growl comes from behind Stiles’ shoulders, of course managing to scare the guy away. Fuck if Stiles knows what to think anymore.

 _You don’t own me_ , he wants to tell Derek. _I can do whatever the hell pleases me because you’ve made it clear that you don’t want me._ Only he can’t, because Derek and him never talk about that night, because they’ve had sex and now they are back to a hybrid status that has nothing to do with friendship but can’t be defined as a relationship. They are stuck in the middle ad it seems there isn’t a way to change that.

Or maybe Derek has just found it, because suddenly he’s _there_ , body pressed against Stiles’ back as his fingers works their way under Stiles’ shirt, a path that each one of them knows too well but has been pretending to have forgotten it. “Give the Jeep’s keys to Erica,” Derek orders, lips barely brushing Stiles’ ear as the words slip between his teeth, working their way inside Stiles’ head like water into rock. Persistent and limitless.

It’s so fucking crazy that Stiles almost wants to elbow Derek in his stupidly toned stomach only to have the occasion to laugh in his face. “Erica?” he repeats, a question that doesn’t cover his disbelief.

As if that’s a magic word, though, Erica suddenly dances in front of them, Boyd attached to her side for no apparent reason. Derek’s fingertips press against Stiles’ skin. “Fine,” he says, knows that the werewolves are able to hear him anyway even over the loud music.

Once the keys are in Erica’s hand, metal shining under the strobe lights, just then Stiles allows himself to turn around, push at Derek’s hands until the Alpha is letting him go, only to feel Derek’s fingers settle back on his skin when he’s turned to face him. “Now what,” he says, because Derek better have something good in mind, or Stiles will evirate him for good this time.

Of course, being Derek the broody, mysterious caveman that he is, he doesn’t lose time in explanations, choosing instead to drag Stiles away from the dance floor and straight out of the club. “Hey,” Stiles faintly protests, thought he doesn’t say anything else because he knows that it’s now or never. Literally.

The night is barely chilly outside, the sky a deep, rich shade of blue over their heads. Stiles inhales quietly, feels his heart beat steadily in his chest as Derek and him walk together back to the Camaro and the need to fill the silence between them paws at his guts. “Perfect timing for a jealousy fit,” is of course the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Smooth like silk, that’s him.

Derek doesn’t even bother to turn around, his profile standing out against the cone of light coming from a street lamp. “Shut up,” he says, because he totally isn’t the one who chose to drag Stiles away in the first place.

Stiles labels his words as those of a lunatic. “No, I’m serious, it’s a wonder the way that guy just fled at the sight of your, what, untamable rage?” He watches, amused, as a vein twitches inside Derek’s neck. “Did you actually _snarl_ at him?”

This time, Derek glances at him from over his shoulder. “Shut up, Stiles,” he repeats, though Stiles can spy something vaguely resembling a smile. “You know I didn’t.”

“But you could have. It’s not like you haven’t ever done it.” Ah. As if. Before, Derek has done it so many times Stiles has lost count, but now it’s completely different, it’s been a while since he’s thought he was allowed to act like that. “The only thing I don’t get,” Stiles continues as they finally arrive in front of the Camaro, “is why you think you have the right to scare away my one night stands even before they get the occasion to deserve that title. After all, it isn’t like you haven’t made it clear enough that you don’t-”

Somewhere not too far away, the alarm of a car goes off just as Derek turns to face Stiles, teeth bared as he almost snarls. “I do. I did and _I do_. And, yes, I have all the rights to scare away whoever dares to even look at you because you. Are. _Mine_.”

Sharp, powerful words that leave Stiles gaping for a second. But then rebellion is surging in him, pushing at the inner walls of his chest and fighting as he snorts. “Yours? What the hell, Derek.” He opens his arms in a disbelieving gesture, palms up. “Was I yours when you cowardly hid from me for almost a week? Was I yours when you fucked me and then left me alone in my bed? Because if I was, then one of us is clearly fucked up in the head.”

Saying it out loud, it hurts Stiles just as much as it seems to hurt Derek. Chest heaving, Stiles blinks as the Alpha takes a step back. “I didn’t-”

But Stiles is having none of this shit, not anymore. “Yes. Yes, you did and I let you. So now tell me why should I let you drag me away from an easy fuck when you’ve already made it clear that I’m not enough for you?”

In the dark of the night Derek’s eyes look like two endless, insidious ponds. “I never said that,” he stiffens.

And Stiles is scared now, so scared of where this argument will probably lead them, and yet he can’t stop himself from replying. “Too bad that asking to bite me and fleeing soon after my refusal is a pretty telling signal itself. You didn’t really need to add words, your actions spoke volumes.”

“Fleeing- I didn’t _flee_ ,” Derek says, lips twisting around the word as if it tastes foul. “You had made it clear that you didn’t want me the way I wanted you, Stiles. What the hell did you expect me to do?”

Recriminations, they’ve come to this now. Just fantastic.

“I didn’t want-” Derek can’t possibly be accusing Stiles of such a thing. “Damn, Derek, I _craved you_. I still do. And I don’t know from where you are pulling out all this _it’s clearly the human’s fault_ shit but I’ll let you know that I’m so very not okay with that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Derek tells him, because he is a man of coherence.

Stiles frowns. “Of course it’s not, you are the one who ran away.” Simple. Clear. Let’s move on to the next topic.

Only that they are not. Because Derek blinks. Hard. “For the love of-” he pinches his nose. “I didn’t run away.”

Stiles never pinned Derek for a delusional man. “You did,” he says, because it’s true.

“I did not,” Derek shoots back.

Oh, really. “And you called Allison too.”

“That I did,” Derek nods, shoulders relaxing a bit.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Stiles raises his eyebrows. “So you’re admitting it.” For being an FBI agent, Derek is pretty easy to manipulate when it comes to this kind of things.

“Admitting what,” Derek barks.

“That you ran away with your tail between your stupidly muscled legs.” Dog jokes, Stiles still owns them. 

From where he is standing in front of Stiles, leather jacket making him look more like a creepy pusher than an agent of the law, Derek sighs in a way that means he’s regretting all of his life choices. Twice. And in alphabetical order. “I do not have a tail, Stiles. You know that,” he says at last.

Sure thing. “I know nothing when you are keeping me out in the cold only to accuse me.” Because Stiles isn’t up for that kind of game, not anymore.

Derek’s expression grows serious. “I’m not accusing you,” he states, eyes finding and locking with Stiles’ because he needs his words to sink in. “You are the one who turned off the bite.”

Surprise, surprise, they are back to the start. Only this time Stiles is determined to break the circle, isn’t afraid of whatever is waiting for him after the merry-go-round will come to a halt. “I’d still do it,” he says. “Hell, I’d write my refusal in Assyrian if need be.”

“Assyrian,” Derek repeats, a bit lost, because this is so not how he planned for this conversation to go. “Look, I know that you don’t want to- Be like me. But this is the only way I know, I’ve known anything different in all my life. Humans and werewolves just aren’t made to be together-”

“But we do.”

Derek flinches like Stiles has just cracked a whip. When he speaks again, his word sounds like a leap into the void. “What?”

Maybe they both need to know what comes next, they both need to finally break free from this stillness. So Stiles doesn’t stop, lets the words slip out of his mouth as everything around him reduces to a single intake of breath and an ensemble of trembling sounds. “We do, though. We are made to be together.”

There is no other place to go. “Stiles,” Derek starts.

But Stiles isn’t stopping now, won’t let this moment slip through his fingers like fine sand. “Just- I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, but- Shut up, Derek, please.” He steps closer to Derek, isn’t afraid anymore. “There isn’t any written law stating that we can’t work. Is that why you left me alone? Because of what someone told you when you still were a little, annoying cub? Because, if so, you’re this close from gaining the title of _Mr. Emotionally Constipated_. Sparkly pink crown included.”

“I can’t really see how these things might be related,” Derek arches a brow. “Besides, I never was a _cub_. I have photographic evidence to prove it.”

Of all that Stiles just said, he’s choosing to focus on that. Seriously. “Photoshop,” Stiles mutters, trying to make it pass for a weird cough.

“I need to have you in my life, Stiles.”

Which, wow, the blow lands so much under Stiles’ belt that he’s actually going to have to dig a cave under his feet to find it. Nonetheless, he doesn’t miss a beat. “I will never accept to be turned,” he shoots back, doesn’t even try to deny that he needs Derek too, needs him so much closer than he is in this moment, needs Derek to be _his_. Because possessiveness is a thing that works both ways.

There must be something that Derek reads in Stiles’ eyes that makes him deflate all at once. “I know. I think I can learn to deal with that.”

Uhm. “Didn’t seem so not less than one month ago.” This is the farthest that Stiles dares to push it because Nick’s name is still able to drive Derek on the edge of losing control. Though he needs to get it out of his system, needs to make Derek understand even if that means wounding him, even if that means carving Stiles’ reasons in pain-white lines all over Derek’s heart.

Something in Derek’s eyes flares. “I know,” he snarls, one warm hand reaching to grab Stiles’ forearm in a possessive grip, fingers pressing against Stiles’ still fresh, covered scars. “I know and the mere thought makes me go crazy at times. But I can’t just ignore my instincts, I can’t ignore you. Because you’re worth a try, you always are.” A heavy breath, syllables stumbling one after the other in a weird, scribbly line. “But, before anything, I need you to tell me that you want it too, I need to hear that-”

For Stiles’ liking, Derek needs to hear a bit too many things. “You can be so dumb at times,” he breathes out, lips curving in a crazy smile as he tugs at Derek’s arm, fingers closing around the solid curve of his biceps when Stiles kisses him. They’ve waited way too long.

***

Despite the Camaro being the utterly sexy, _excuse me I’ll just take off my panties now_ level of hot car that it is, there is no chance in hell that Derek and Stiles are going to fit in there and manage to have sexy times without breaking something, be it the shifting gear or Stiles’ kneecap. So they choose to restrain themselves for the very short time it takes to Derek to drive them back to Stiles’ place, the roar of the car’s engine literally laughing in the face of each one of the red traffic lights they encounter.

Once they stumble through the apartment’s door, though, Derek doesn’t even give Stiles the time to breathe, impatient fingers finding Stiles’ arms and pushing as Derek crowds him against the door, mouths at the tip of Stiles’ ear because he needs to taste every single inch of skin, needs his scent to linger on Stiles’ skin- “No,” Stiles protests feebly when Derek drops to his knees, hands firm on Stiles’ hips and pinning him to the door. “Come on, Derek, let me- Want to blow you,” it’s almost a plead, one that Derek would be more than happy to indulge if he wasn’t so eager to get to Stiles’ bare skin right now.

Not that there won’t be time for it. “Later,” he growls, quick fingers unbuttoning Stiles’ jeans and dragging them down and off Stiles’ long, toned legs. A destiny that they suddenly share with Stiles’ boxer briefs. Though not before Derek has mouthed Stiles’ already hard cock through them, teeth fighting the thin barrier made of cloth and skidding over the curve of Stiles’ erection.

Stiles’ head lands against the wooden surface behind him with a very audible thud. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, hands fisted at his sides as he refrains himself to thread his fingers between Derek’s hair, grabs some strands and tug at them, make Derek understand how much he’s affecting Stiles.

There is no air in his lungs, no other light outside the one shining in Derek’s eyes as he noses at the underside of Stiles’ dick, inhaling Stiles’ perfect scent and taking his time to savor it. And, when Derek’s lips finally close around the head, tight and wet and _loved_ , Stiles’ loud moan breaks free like wind filtering through sails, spine arching as he offers himself to Derek.

But it isn’t enough yet, as Derek collects some of the spit dribbling down Stiles’ shaft with his fingers, wetting them just enough that, when he pushes them past Stiles’ balls, they slip easily over Stiles’ hole, where the skin is plump and smooth. Derek circles it slowly, as he closes his lips tight around Stiles’ cock, tongue sliding against the vein hidden under thin skin and making Stiles shudder in pleasure.

It’s beautiful, the way Stiles has gone pliant under his hands, open and eager and wanting, and it makes Derek hungry to touch, to discover each one of the places that make Stiles’ lips part and his pupils widen. His other hand moves down from Stiles’ hip to caress his balls, the inside of his thighs, down his calf and the bony line of his ankle, only to travel back a moment later in a slow caress. It almost overwhelms Stiles.

And then, when he’s just thinking that it can’t get better than that, that his pleasure is this close to reach the peak- Derek’s middle finger starts to slowly sink in, one digit at time, Stiles’ body enveloping each one of his knuckles in soft warmth.

One day, Derek’s going to finger Stiles for hours, tie him to the bed and play with Stiles’ body until he’ll be screaming and pleading, muscle tensing and fighting the restraints as he’ll beg for Derek to let him come, to sink his teeth where Stiles’ blood pumps fast and delicious and please, _please_ , mark him.

But now it’s not the time, not when all he wants to do is push Stiles up against the door and fuck him raw, use his own dick to open Stiles up and fill him until he’ll be bursting with come- “Holy mother of- Warn a man, Stilinski, would you?” Jackson’s voice suddenly calls from the other side of the door.

From where he’s almost flattened against the door, sweat trickling down the long, pale curve of his arched neck, Stiles jumps, hole clenching around Derek’s fingers as he slams his palms against the wooden surface. “Jackson,” he moans, a name that feels so wrong coming out of his lips at a moment like this that Derek’s first instinct is to rip and shred and _making bleed_.

From the other side of the door, Jackson cries out as if Stiles has just mortally wounded him. “I’m going to need so much therapy,” Stiles and Derek hear him say, a loud, thudding sound signaling them that he must’ve slammed his head against a wall.

Lydia’s voice joins him a moment later. “Don’t get your blood all over the wallpaper, please,” she says just as Derek licks a long, wet stripe from the thick base of Stiles’ dick to the silky, salty curve of the tip, tongue lapping at the translucent fluid pooling at the slit. Stiles’ rewards him with another of his loud, chest-deep moans that makes Jackson cry in despair for the third time in a row.

“So ready,” Derek mutters as he lets Stiles’ dick slide out of his mouth, his bottom lip a messy, shining line that makes Stiles want to lick at it. He twists his fingers inside Stiles, lust flaring in his groin and making his dick leak copiously in his pants when Stiles gapes, arching off the door as if the wood is burning his skin. “Turn around.” It’s a growled order, one that Stiles follows promptly as he lets his fire-hot cheek rest against the cold surface of the door.

From outside, Jackson sounds like he’s just about to start weeping blood tears. “Drama queen,” Derek hears Lydia mutter right before she raises her tone. “Get jizz on the couch and I’ll make you lick it clean, are we clear?” she tells them.

But Derek is too busy keeping his eyes on where Stiles’ fingers are pressing into skin as he keeps himself spread open for Derek, dark-pink, inviting hole twitching in a lovely way when the head of Derek’s cock catches against its rim, pressing just enough that Derek can feel Stiles’ entrance slowly widening around him, giving in and adjusting to the girth of his cock.

Stiles’ hands are flat against the door, nails barely scratching the wooden surface as Derek works his way inside his body, and Derek lets his palms cover them, intertwines his fingers with Stiles’ as he thrusts his hips forward just a little bit more. But the contact isn’t enough and he feels like he’s suffocating, like he needs more, so much more- “Fuck,” he exhales, “I love-”

 _You_. This. Stiles’ hips pushing back against him cut him mid-phrase, making Derek’s dick slide deeper inside as Stiles’ forehead comes resting against the door. “Yeah,” he cries.

For now, it’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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